


One Heart Walking

by sorion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-17
Updated: 2011-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-26 04:54:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorion/pseuds/sorion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He does have a heart. And it’s walking around right in front of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Heart Walking

**Author's Note:**

> Starts with the season 1 finale. (Yes, there are spoilers.)

  


Sherlock looks at John sitting on the cold, tiled floor, and he can feel the red lights dancing on his chest and neck as if the shots had already been fired, making him choke on his own blood that is pulsing through him. The blue eyes looking at him, trusting, accepting; the nod that is sealing what is clear between them.

And Sherlock realises what Moriarty in his twisted, brilliant mind has already deduced: Sherlock does have a heart, and he is looking at it right now. It is the only explanation of _all_ the facts.

Without Sherlock having been aware of it, John has become the only target, the only wearer of Moriarty’s jacket, that would not only get Sherlock to play the game, but the one who would _engage_ him, down to his core. The one game he cannot survive to lose.

“Then probably my answer has crossed yours.” The voice echoes off the walls of the swimming pool, freezing the momentum.

His mind, using every resource at his disposal, runs at double the time with the adrenalin flooding his system. Sherlock knows that, has always used fear to his advantage. This time, however, the fear is different. He wants to escape it. For the first time in his life, Sherlock does not want to play. But it is not the fear of death that is so paralytic. Oh, no.

Moriarty is right. There is a way to burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes would take Moriarty to _hell_ with him for making _him_ be the one to do it.

He caresses the trigger, pointing the gun towards the fire just waiting to be ignited, never taking his eyes off Moriarty. For a brief moment, he allows himself to regret not being able to look at John once more, then he discards the thought. He can’t risk looking away, not when the blink of an eye is all that Moriarty might need.

He pulls back his finger.

He can’t hear the gunshot. He can’t hear the explosion. It does not hurt. The mere seconds it takes for his world to come crashing down stretch to hours of panic, deafening noise and deafening silence, searing and soothing heat, disintegrating reality. His heart is still beating, he knows, yet soon it will burn, just as Moriarty has threatened.

And then there it is. His heart, holding onto him. Gripping. Shoving. Pushing. Cooling and suffocating water surrounding them both. One dull _thud_ under the water amidst the screeching of concrete... and everything is black... and...

 

... Sherlock awakes with a gasp, sitting in his bed, cold sweat running into his eyes, stinging.

For long minutes, he just sits with the heels of his hands pressing into his eyes, trying to regain his breath. The only sound in the room is the rapid beating of his heart – the muscle, not the _real_ heart.

Just a nightmare. Just a nightmare. He’s had it before during the past several weeks. Every night, he wakes soaked and trembling. Every night he wakes confused, not knowing why the explosion shattered him so. Every night he thinks it is because Moriarty has not been found and still poses a threat, never mind that it would be the first time that Sherlock loses sleep over a mere threat.

Every night... except this one. This night is worse, because Sherlock now understands. Finally understands.

His hands fall uselessly into his lap, and his eyes stare at the ceiling.

“How could I not have known? How could I have _missed_...” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He knows how he missed the clues. Missed them, because his mind does not take emotional fallibility into consideration, not in him, not ever.

“You are twice the idiot, Sherlock,” he says. Once for allowing the importance of a single person to sneak into his life in the first place. Twice for not noticing it happening. And it has been happening, gradually, he can see it now, clear as day, laughing in his face. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It had been happening from the very beginning, right from the moment in which the risk-seeking doctor did not tell Sherlock to _“piss off”_ but instead laughed with him.

It was an anomaly, it was different, it was _fun_. And while Sherlock might have originally only wanted to prove a point when making John run with him after that taxi, the smile on the doctor’s face when he realised that there was no cane... Sherlock – without wanting or realising to – cared. He cared because he understood. Much as John’s leg was hurting without its purpose, Sherlock’s mind rebels without a case.

 

Something else is rebelling inside Sherlock now. Rebelling and threatening to storm the Bastille of predictable rationality. He supposes that he could treat it like a case – it is certainly just as demanding of his attention – if only... if only it concerned merely one person and not two.

Apart from freak, psychopath or sociopath, Sherlock has been called a social retard on several occasions. Quite correctly, too.

No, this is truly not his area. Not even close.

Annoyed at himself and the humanity inside that he cannot seem to shake for the sake of his mind, he gets up and throws on a bathrobe before quietly wandering into their living room.

He is not always this considerate. Most of the time, he doesn’t care whether or not he wakes John, because his thoughts are otherwise occupied. Some of the times, he cares that he _does_ wake him, whenever the silence is too distracting for him to think clearly.

This is not either of those times. Sherlock stands by the window, the streetlights drawing contours on his unmoving face. He needs time with his thoughts, and he needs the quiet to hear _himself_. There are always so many thoughts and sounds and _existences_ around him that he focuses on. He hardly ever focuses on himself. How confusing and frightening. How... intriguing.

The only outwards signs that he is more than a statue made of pale marble are his breathing and his eyes darting back and forth, following the trails of his thoughts.

What are the possibilities at hand?

Backwards? No, no. Backwards is never an option. Now that he is aware of the situation, ignoring it wouldn’t make it go away.

Sidestepping? No. Sidestepping requires constant effort. Distracting.

Which only leaves forward, which usually is his preferred method. In this case, the possible ramifications are still to be considered. He can, after all, not live without his heart. Well, maybe that is a bit melodramatic. The fact remains that, however... he does not _want_ to. John fills a part of Sherlock that he hadn’t been aware had ever been vacant.

Confrontation? Risky. Never mind the fact that Sherlock is unsure what his intention even is, unused as he is to such matters. Clearly, that requires more thought.

Upholding the status quo? Possible. And more than likely the immediate course of action for some time, frustrating as that may yet prove to be.

What about John’s possible reaction to a hypothetical confrontation, then? Sherlock does have a lot of data concerning the other man, after all, and should be able to reach a valid deduction.

 _”No, no. I’m not asking... no.”_ Those had been John’s words when Sherlock had assumed that there might be some romantic interest, hadn’t they? And John had seemed quite serious. This brings Sherlock back to the sidestepping, which he knows he cannot uphold for long. He is not someone to ignore the obvious fact.

On the other hand, Sherlock had been quite serious at the time, as well. _”I consider myself married to my work.”_ He still considers himself that, but something about John’s presence in his life is different. A different variable than originally assumed. Much more... essential.  
_”... I’m really not looking...”_ Well, that doesn’t mean you did not _find_ , does it, Sherlock?

Then another set of words echo through Sherlock’s mind. Words spoken by a much hated, yet disturbingly insightful voice.

_“You’ve rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson.”_

Sherlock already knows that he is important to John. That is not news to him... The exact extent remains somewhat of a mystery, though. He’s already misread John once. The one time at Angelo’s.

Sherlock flinches. Or has he? Just because John is not _aware_ of feeling attraction doesn’t necessarily mean that he _doesn’t_. Much like Sherlock himself hadn’t been aware of it.

And John has ample reasons to ignore the signs.

Reason one: John likes women, and women are easier. More acceptable. There is less friction with outsiders. No hide-and-seek, no obscuring of pronouns. No, “ _oh_ , are you...” questions with open ended sentences. Even if it _”would be fine, by the way.”_

Reason two: Harry. John does not approve of Harry, never has. He has every reason to be as dissimilar to his sister as he can. Whether John is consciously aware of it or not, Harry has proven, time and time again, that her kind of life is not one worth pursuing, which might or might not include sexual orientation. The subconscious is a terribly strong motivator, particularly _because_ one is not aware of it.

Reason three: Perceived familial obligations. John has no more siblings. Harry does not have children – nor should she in her current (and apparently long since ongoing) circumstances.

Reason four: Because of the above mentioned reasons, it is entirely plausible that any type of attraction to his own sex is new and frightening to John. Of course it would be. It is for many people, and most of which have not lived as many comfortable years on the heterosexual side of the fence with little to no incentive to ever change that.

 _”Run, Sherlock!” – “You’ve rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson.”_  
“Girlfriends, boyfriends.” – “You’re unattached like me.”  
Body language... Very distinctive body language.  
“You’ve rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson...”

Sherlock is usually very good at reading signals that others unconsciously send out. That does not mean... that they will ever acknowledge the reasons for sending them, Sherlock is aware.

But the reasons _are_ there.

 

He is putting together the most promising way to deal with the situation he now has at his hands when soft steps from behind him interrupt his musings.

He blinks slowly and releases his breath just as slowly. He would have to make time for himself, his thoughts and intentions again later.

“You still have nightmares?” John asks.

Sherlock straightens and clears his throat. “They will not be bothering me in the future, anymore.” He turns around to face his friend, both of them dressed amusingly similarly. John in red and brown, while Sherlock himself favours blue and grey.

John appears sceptical. “I don’t think... that post traumatic stress just stops because you want it to.”

Sherlock can’t help but smirk. “That would be true. If it _was_ post traumatic stress.”

John blinks, then understands. “You weren’t having those nightmares because we both almost got killed?”

“Of course not,” he replies, quickly. _Not entirely anyway._ “This isn’t the first time I got close to dying.” _The first time **you** did, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. And now I understand why; curse you for making me human. Curse you. Love you._

John turns that thought over in his head, examining it. “So... what’s different, this time?”

For a long moment, Sherlock can’t breathe. The way the question is formed, the way the inflection makes it sound like much too deliberate a question to be as innocent as John would like to make it appear…  
_’You know the answer to that, don’t you, John?’_ Sherlock wonders if any way but forward has ever been an option with someone who knows him as well as John apparently and inexplicably does. And whenever John does, Sherlock can’t help but grin. He doesn’t dare to now.  
“Just... something that I managed to... miss.”

John laughs lightly. “You? Miss something?”

Sherlock throws him an annoyed look.

“Must be _quite_ something, then.”

“You could say that,” he answers noncommittally. He can see John weighing his options. He can see the exact moment when the doctor’s mind stumbles over _different_. Only one thing has been different. Differentdifferentdifferent. _’You knew before, John, and you still know now.’_

What John says instead, is, “Can I help?”

The offer comes so unexpectedly that Sherlock blinks in surprise, clears his throat and then turns halfway to the side. “No,” he waves off John’s concern. “This is just me being... me.”

“With me, though,” John says.

Sherlock’s eyes flicker to John, take in the calm look on the other’s face, the way he is just standing there, solid as a rock. His rock. How can he have... how could _John_ have... John and not Sherlock...?

John, finally, takes pity on him. “I... uhm... kind of realised a thing or two about myself when I decided I was ready to get myself blown up to make sure you’d be safe. Caused quite a bit of...” he half-nods, half-shrugs, “... confusion, I can tell you that.”

Sherlock finds himself at loss for words. John had been aware, and had apparently merely been waiting to see if Sherlock felt similarly. “It... is...”

“I know. Not really your area.” He smiles benignly, and Sherlock can’t help but answer that with a self-deprecating chuckle of his own.

“Your insight is uncanny,” Sherlock finally says, smirking.

“Well... some of it was bound to rub off, eventually.”

Another small laugh from both of them, together with a shared grin. Sherlock curses himself for not having figured this out sooner, giving him no more time to come to terms with his intentions. He knows what he _feels_ , he doesn’t yet know or understand what he _wants_. Not really. He needs to... He needs more data. His smile disappears slowly.  
“How did you know?” Because he is now certain that John wouldn’t have been quite so sure about Sherlock’s emotions if he had only just read him now.

John pulls a face. “Moriarty.”

Sherlock inclines his head.

“He could have gone after a number of people to make his... final point,” John explains. “Yet he came after me. It occurred to me...” he pauses, uncomfortably, “... that if the situation had been reversed, and you had been in his place... you wouldn’t have gone after someone who is merely a flatmate.”

Sherlock sighs. His ingrained blindness towards himself is irritating as well as surprisingly extensive. John is right, in another person, he would have seen the... infatuation... almost immediately.

John takes a step closer, holding up a placating hand. “You couldn’t have seen it.”

Sherlock’s eyes flash. “I _should_ have!”

John merely shrugs. “You’re a self-declared sociopath. How could you possibly have seen it?”

The truth of the statement only manages to irritate Sherlock further. Keeping his distance, not leaving space for anything but what is essential to his work... he had always believed that to be the most efficient course of action. And because of it, he now found himself out of his comfort zone. He has completely ignored a part of himself, and that now consequently leaves him unprepared and without insight as to how to deal with this new situation. It is distracting him, delaying his orderly thought processes. It is entirely unacceptable.  
And yet... this isn’t about thought processes, is it? If it was, Sherlock would have no problems dealing with it. This was difficult, and _wanting_ to understand isn’t always enough. Feelings... are tangled, messy, confusing. Unavoidable. He knows enough about emotions to understand that they will not be dissipated by sheer force of will, and Sherlock... is not entirely certain that he would wish for it even if he could.

“He is going to try again,” he finally says. The painful emotion now clearly burning inside him, mocking him for having missed it.

“Hm? Moriarty?”

Sherlock turns to the side, avoiding John’s eyes. “You’re...” There really is no sense in ignoring it any longer. “You are the heart, John. He’s going to try to... burn...” He can’t finish the sentence and risks a quick glance at his friend who is now openly staring at him in amazement.

John clears his throat, quickly, trying to regain his composure. “Yes, well. He’s going to do that either way,” John says, stating the facts that he knew Sherlock must have considered himself. “I can’t escape you. No, wait, that didn’t come out right,” he interrupts his thought himself. “I don’t _want_ to,” he admits.

Sherlock nods. The pain is etched into his features in an expression that John has only seen the one time by the pool. Then he... lets it go. He briefly purses his lips. “You seem to have made up your mind.”

John’s lip twitches. “Like I said. I had a head start.”

Sherlock smiles again. John never fails to amuse him. “Thank you.”

“For?”

“Allowing me... these... musings.” He waves his hand in a vague gesture. “I realise this is not the standard protocol for... a situation of a romantic nature.” He frowns, annoyed at himself again. He likes being precise, but his insecurity is truly taking it to hitherto unknown heights, using the specific words to disguise the fact that he doesn’t know how to use the appropriately emotional ones.

John smiles fondly at him. It says that he doesn’t mean it in a bad way and doesn’t in the strictest sense laugh _at_ him. Not really.  
“I hate to be the one to break it to you, Sherlock, but you’re a mess, and you need to think this through.”

“And you’re providing.”

“Yes.” They consider each other for a long moment, before John continues. “This is just you, I guess. The way you are. Different. And if you weren’t... well.”

“I guess you wouldn’t consider changing your habits quite so readily.”

“Hell, no.”

Neither of them speaks the thought out loud that, obviously, the same would have to apply to Sherlock.

Then Sherlock fidgets again. “What exactly... are you... considering?”

John blinks. “You really need to ask?”

Sherlock swallows, desperately clinging to whatever nonchalance he has, grasping for words. No, it is not his area at all. “Your interest in women is hard to miss, and there can be... romantic interest without the sexual aspect...”

John takes a deep breath and rushes out: “Your neck makes me curse the moments when you’re wearing t-shirts, because I want to be able to go from there and work myself down button by button.” He breathes and looks for all the world like he’s waiting for the firing squad to receive their order. “I, uh...” he clears his throat. “I’ve been thinking about that. Recently. Since the uh... yeah.”

Sherlock just stares at him, taking in the flustered state of his friend in wonder. The rapid breathing, the nervous licking of his lips, the sweat glistening at his temples, the wild eyes... John Watson _ignites_ him.

“Of course,” John suddenly adds, averting his eyes, “if you’re not interested in me in that way...”

“That will not be a problem,” Sherlock interrupts him. “Not at all.”

John bites back the smile that threatens to break free. “Good. That’s... good. You just never struck me as the overtly sexual type, that’s all.”

Sherlock grins and saunters - _saunters_! - closer. “That would be because people usually don’t interest me for themselves.” Of course, he has been known to use other people’s attraction to him every now and again. That part he understands.

John is now visibly nervous again, and Sherlock understands that as well. Changing habits... can be frightening. But when Sherlock stands within reaching distance, John reaches out a hand and lays it on Sherlock’s waist.

John clears his throat again. “I’m... a bit out of my depth, here, though.”

“You and me both.”

A thought suddenly occurs to John, and he looks at Sherlock’s face, trying to read it. “Just how out of your depth are you...?”

Sherlock, deciphering the message in the way it was intended of course, returns the look incredulously. “I’m much too curious to be a virgin, John,” he says, amusement tingeing his voice.

“Of course.” John rolls his eyes. “Wouldn’t do for Sherlock Holmes to not understand one of the most powerful motivators for violence.”

“Naturally.” Sherlock moves another step closer, until there is hardly any space between them and runs a hand up John’s still out stretched arm to his shoulder.

“Guy and girl.” It’s not a question.

“Of course,” Sherlock shoots back, the restored banter breaking the last bit of tension. His hand moves from the shoulder to cup the neck. “Not at the same time, however,” he adds, mostly to mess with John.

“Of course not. That would screw with the result.”

Their foreheads touch with their laughter, and from there the smiling kiss comes surprisingly naturally.

Sherlock kisses like he experiments. With perfect care, diligently trying out all angles with his lips before moving to the next and deepening the kiss. Every contact is a new reference point, allowing him to presume how John will react to which kind of stimulus, letting him conclude how best to proceed. And every time he reads a signal right, receives the reaction he attempted to elicit, it spurns him on, excites him.

When Sherlock’s tongue conquers John’s mouth, neither can hold back a moan, and Sherlock has to acknowledge that none of his previous experimentations hold a candle to _this_.  
He had at the time calculated the possible impact of the emotional aspect on physical affection and had estimated it to be minimal at best. Sherlock doesn’t usually like to be wrong, but he does like to be surprised – pleasantly surprised at that.

He is surprised yet again when the sensations force him to apply a more immediate approach with less providence than he would have preferred under normal circumstances. But since he has every confidence that his mind will record all the things transpiring faithfully, he allows himself to walk this entirely novel path with the resolution to later examine everything at great length.

And Sherlock... lets go.

John can feel when Sherlock’s movements lose some of their edge and become less precise, and the apparent trust very nearly makes him sob into the kiss. Instead, he wraps both his arms tightly around Sherlock’s torso, and Sherlock responds by wrapping his own around John’s shoulders and weave his finger through the short hair.

It doesn’t take long for John to let go of his own restraint as well, and he moves his hands from Sherlock’s back to his front, runs them over his stomach and chest, before they go higher to push the robe off Sherlock’s shoulders and onto the floor.

Sherlock lets go of John to oblige and in return removes John’s robe as well. For a few breaths they just look at each other, both apprehensive but still quite happy with being where they are, then they kiss again.

John’s hands find Sherlock’s neck and chest again. He’s thought about the body that is now at his disposal often in the past weeks, and it had taken him the whole of the first week to realise that not only did the lacking curves not disturb him, he indeed found the angular features to be almost exotically appealing. Discovering them now was... well... incredible. A month ago, this would have been inconceivable, and now it feels like everything he has ever longed for.  
His hands wander back up the firm chest to the neck, only to go downwards again and pull at the collar of the t-shirt.

Sherlock chuckles into the kiss. “I’ll wear a button down next time.”

John drops his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder and returns the chuckle. “Yeah, well...” He presses a firm kiss to the neck exposed to him. “I can’t help it.” With that, he bends down, takes Sherlock’s hand in his while picking up his robe with the other (he leaves Sherlock’s robe where it lies) and marches both of them towards the other man’s bedroom. “We’d better get out of here before we wake Mrs Hudson.”

“Planning on getting vocal, are you?”

“It’s a possibility,” John says, grinning over his shoulder. He throws his robe onto Sherlock’s bed and then loses no time pulling that offensive t-shirt up and off his friend. The sight is as delectable as the touch, and he leans in for another kiss, but Sherlock grins and evades it.

“Tit for tat, dear,” he declares, in return taking off John’s shirt, not that John complains.

They come together in an embrace that sends another salvo of sparks through their bare skin, making them moan against each other’s lips.

Sherlock feels dizzy from the sensations, too unused to being caught up in a moment to such an extent that he can no longer consider other aspects or consequences. The rush is _exhilarating_.  
Without breaking the kiss, he directs John backwards to the bed. He lays him down and climbs over him, his eyes catching John’s.  
Reverently he runs a tender finger over John’s face and lips.

John sighs and lets his eyes fall close.

Sherlock brushes a soft kiss over John’s lips. “Look at me.”

John obeys, watching Sherlock shake his head in astonishment.

“You heighten my senses.” He lowers himself to press down on John, letting them both feel their shared arousal and making them moan. “How do you do that? You’re nothing like me,” Sherlock murmurs between kisses.

John tilts up his head for a longer, deeper kiss. “Maybe someone like you isn’t what you want.”

“Want...” Sherlock answers John’s passionate kiss with a fervent one of his own, then kisses down John’s neck and chest, his hands taking in as much of John as his mouth. “You drive me mad with want.”

John’s head falls back. “Ohhhhhh~ That... oh, God.” He decides to stop trying to articulate any thoughts that might pass by him, since Sherlock’s ministrations make him want to forget that he even needs to breathe. Sherlock is probably cataloguing every taste, lick and caress, and John doesn’t mind in the least being the subject of his study. He never has before, anyway. “Sherlock...”

Sherlock’s eager and single-minded curiosity loses John his pyjama bottoms within moments and lays him open before Sherlock to feast on.  
Without any trace of hesitation, he enthusiastically runs fingers and his tongue up and down John’s dick, grinning at the twitches he elicits, before taking the tip into his mouth.

John gasps and writhes beneath Sherlock. “Did... didn’t... didn’t you say you were out of your depth, here?” he manages to say.

Sherlock leaves off with his mouth, only keeping his hand wrapped around the heated flesh. “Well, unlike you, I _have_ been with a man.”

John laughs breathlessly. “You’re going to have to tell me about that.”

“It wasn’t an experience worth repeating,” Sherlock says, kissing John’s hip bone. “Not with the same premise, anyway.”

John can’t help himself. He has to ask. “This is not the same, then?”

Sherlock pushes himself up and over John again to kiss him. Despite the joking tone, he could still make out the insecurity behind the statement. “No, John. You’re not.”

John holds him close, kissing him and then finally pulls at Sherlock’s bottoms. “Get these off,” he says when Sherlock laughs into the kiss.

Sherlock doesn’t break the kiss, neither with his ongoing grin nor with his sideways manoeuvre to take off the rest of his clothing. Then he settles, straddling his lover, moving against him.  
He does break the kiss to say, “Am I right in assuming that there is something useful in the pocket of your robe?”

It takes John’s brain several seconds to recover from the intense contact and the kisses to work through the words, and when Sherlock sees that he did, he chuckles and licks John’s lips, teasingly.

“Am I?” Sherlock asks again.

“I’m not even going to ask...”

Sherlock, of course, doesn’t have to be asked, even in the state he’s in. “You wouldn’t have bothered taking your robe but not mine, and from the fall of the cloth, there is something in the left pocket. Something smallish, but with more weight than the size would let assume. Maybe a small bottle? And since I already know you went to the trouble to prepare, probably some time ago, I’m guessing a bottle of lube is not the only thing in there.”

John blinks at him. “This really shouldn’t turn me on.”

“And yet it does,” comes the prompt reply, dripping with smugness.

John groans and squeezes his eyes closed. “Get the stuff, already.”

Sherlock, not wanting desistence from John for any longer than strictly necessary, retrieves both the lube and the two condoms with purposive precision and returns to his original position in a heartbeat. The condoms end up on the pillow next to John’s head, the lube remains in his hand.  
“I’ll bottom, since out of the two of us I’m the one who knows what he’s doing, ironically enough. Problem?”

An incredulous giggle escapes John. “Problem? No.” He shakes his head. “Not really, no.” Then some of the insecurity shines through again, when he sees Sherlock open the bottle and drip some of the content onto his fingers. “Is there... anything I should do?”

Sherlock just grins. “You like watching me at work,” he states, his slick fingers reaching behind himself. “So, I suggest you do... just that.”

John can’t see Sherlock breaching himself, but he does see the reaction it causes, and it thrills him, until the initial shivers turn into trembles and tremors. Just from watching Sherlock... work.  
The lithe body above his undulates from the clever, self-pleasuring fingers, and the pale and sweaty skin is shining in the narrow rays of the streetlight breaching the curtains. The head is thrown back, and from what John can see, the eyes are shut in bliss.  
Sherlock is a vision of determined abandon.

For some time, John is happy just watching the expressive face and running hands up and down the tense thighs flanking him. Once he feels secure enough in the moment, he finally dares lowering his eyes, looking at what he’d only felt before. From their current position, it takes far less effort to look than to _not_ look. And then there it is. Jutting from dark curls, considerably more flushed than the rest of the straining body, leaking steady drops of clear liquid to run glistening from the tip to the root.

John takes a deep breath and finally reaches for it with his left hand. At first tentatively running fingers through the slick tracks of pre-come, he then becomes bolder and wraps his hand around the length in a firm grip.

Sherlock’s breathing stutters to a sudden halt before he groans loudly. He removes his fingers and looks at John. “Ready?”

John realises that Sherlock has been preparing himself as well as John, and had been waiting for him to acclimatise, before suggesting going further. John is sure that the beating of his heart must be visible from the outside. Sherlock is the least considerate person he has ever met, and yet...  
“Yes,” he says, making sure to speak with his heart in his eyes. Sherlock would be able to read it.

And Sherlock does. He leans in to cup John’s face with both hands and kiss him deeply. When he ends the kiss, he remains close for a long moment, just enjoying the proximity.

John whimpers at the sight of the clear blue eyes framed by long, wet lashes, only after a few seconds realising that his own eyes were in a similar state of candidness. Well, reserve has never been Sherlock’s forte, after all, and it is merely one of the things drawing John to him.

They share one more kiss before Sherlock reaches for one of the condoms, opens it and rolls it onto John’s dick without ever taking his eyes off the other man’s. He lifts and then lowers himself, using one hand to steady John while he does it. His eyes fall close again when John fills him.  
When he has his lover seated completely inside him, he reopens his eyes and sees John’s chest rise and fall rapidly, his hands grip the bed sheet, and his eyes stare adoringly at him.

“Gorgeous,” Sherlock murmurs. He braces himself with his hands on the pillow on both sides of John’s head and experimentally starts establishing a rhythm that would pleasure them both equally. And, wanting to see John smile again, he says, smiling himself, “My brave soldier doctor.”

The answering smile is immediate, and John lets go of the sheet and instead reaches for Sherlock’s hips.

“My blogger,” Sherlock continues, chuckling. Again, John’s analogous answer comes with no hesitation. Sherlock has noticed before that laughter _adds_ to the sensation and does not distract from it, unlike he had expected before tonight, and it does the same, now.  
Sherlock regrets that the angle that allows deeper penetration keeps him from kissing John, but when John reaches for his cheek with a hand and urges him closer, the priorities are set, and he leans in for a kiss, trying to make up for the lack of movement by flexing the muscles encompassing John’s hardness.

Considering the explosive loud moan Sherlock receives into the kiss, it apparently more than makes up for it.

“So responsive,” he whispers against the lips below his.

John trembles, and where before he met the movements of Sherlock’s hips with his own, his control over his muscles leaves him, and he can’t do much more than dig his fingers bruisingly into Sherlock’s hips, pulling him as close as possible.

Sherlock repeats the flexing of his muscles and the movements that he knows complement it, driving them both closer to the edge. They continuously moan into a kiss that is more an uncoordinated pressing together of open mouths than a kiss, and when John’s breath begins to hitch urgently, Sherlock reaches between them to stroke himself.

John notices the movement, and, cursing himself for not having thought of it, joins Sherlock’s hand.

“Don’t.” Sherlock shakes his head. He hardly has any control left, and he really needs what little there is. John’s hand stroking him would rip everything else from his mind.

“I want to...”

“You are,” Sherlock insists intently, leaning in for a deep kiss, accepting no further argument, and doubles his efforts.

John can’t argue. He can hardly utter single words. “G... oh-d. Sherlock...”

“Yes,” Sherlock spurns him on, his face contorted in fervent pleasure.

John gasps and whimpers. “Sher... Sherlock. God... Oh God. God...” The babble and moans end in a wordless shout as Sherlock skilfully forces an orgasm out of him like he’s never known before.

“Yes!” Sherlock can’t examine John’s reaction more closely. Feeling his lover pulse inside him drives him over the edge right along with him, and his seed spills onto John’s heaving chest. “Oh!”

Sherlock collapses on John and buries his face in the crook of his lover’s neck.

John, despite his muscles feeling like jelly, wraps his arms around Sherlock and runs his fingers through sweat-soaked locks. He hardly even has his breath back when his lips seek out Sherlock’s wet temple to kiss.

Sherlock turns his head, returning the small, lazy and still breathless kisses. For a long time, all they do is look at each other. (Well, John is looking, Sherlock is mostly studying.)

“That...” John finally declares, “... was amazing.”

It makes Sherlock laugh, and in return John’s softening member slip out of him.

John pulls a face at that.

“Sorry,” says Sherlock, not sounding sorry in the least, and he reaches between them to take off the condom and throw it onto the floor.

John is way too satisfied to react. Messy or not. “If you showed _that_ trick to people, nobody would tell you to piss off.” They both laugh again, and Sherlock relaxes on him, touching from chest to toes.

“You’re a crazy man,” Sherlock says and kisses his crazy man.

The kiss ends naturally, neither really stopping; they just move from kissing to looking and caressing. John can feel the surge in his heart once more, can feel the words on the tip of his tongue and wonders if it would be too much or if he can even hold them back...

“I know.” Sherlock smiles.

John is at the same time relieved, amused and slightly piqued. “Can I say it first, at least?”

Sherlock smirks. “If you like.”

John incredulously shakes his head, then decides to just go for it. “I love you.” He huffs. “You drive me up every wall in this flat, but I love you.”

“Just this flat?”

John theatrically considers the question. “Oh, maybe the Scotland Yard, too.” They both grin.

Sherlock turns serious in a sudden heartbeat. “This... really isn’t my area...” he admits, uncomfortably, fumbling for his next words.

John just rolls his eyes. “I know that, and it’s okay.”

“But I do still love you.”

John freezes.

“That doesn’t mean,” Sherlock elaborates, “that I will stop being... me. The me that makes you storm out of the flat, most likely justly angry with me...”

John just stares at him in amazement and bursts out, “God, I love you so much,” and pulls him into joyous kiss. “I know all that, idiot.”

Sherlock appears visibly relieved and breathes a little easier.

“I told you. If you were anyone else...” He shrugs, and Sherlock smiles. “That doesn’t mean I won’t chew you out when you’re being a particular idiot.”

Sherlock’s smile turns into a grin. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

And just like that, despite being completely different, they are in perfect accord and unanimously settle for some more hours of sleep.

“This is kind of a small bed,” John remarks as they slip under the covers.

“Problem?”

John hums in contentment and pulls Sherlock into a comfortable embrace. “Not in the least.”

Sherlock sighs and arranges John more to his liking, which ends up with the doctor resting with his head half on Sherlock’s shoulder and half on his chest and has him breathe against his neck (that John apparently is so fond of).

“You’re going to have to return the favour, though,” John murmurs against the warm skin.

“Hm?”

“Topping.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinks. “I realise that it tends to be a far bigger issue for people, men in particular, so if you have any reservations, I’m perfectly happy to...”

“No, no. I insist. Thrill seeker, remember?” John says, snickering.

Sherlock laughs with him. “Can’t argue with that.” He muses over their situation for a brief moment, before he has to say, “It’s kind of alarming just how easily you can make me laugh.”

John snorts. “Making you laugh is easy.”

“Says you,” Sherlock shoots back. “Ask my brother sometime.” He can feel John’s lips curl in a smirk against his neck.

“Should I do that before or after he inevitably walks in on us in the probably not so distant future?”

Sherlock’s answering smirk is decidedly wicked. “Make it… _right_ after.”

 

**CASE ~~CLOSED~~ OPEN**


	2. All Roads Lead to Rome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that things have changed in rhythm, a case takes them to Rome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a case, but not much of one (again, it's mostly about the characters), since Sherlock solved it before I could get into any details (the bastard XD).  
> Two things are loosely based on what baka_yu (LJ) requested. I say loosely, because the name isn’t mentioned and they’re not really in disguise XD

When John awakes, he blinks at the ceiling that is decidedly not his own, then he grins and stretches. He doesn’t have to turn around to know that he’s alone in bed, but he hasn’t been expecting any differently. Once Sherlock is awake, his mind is out the door before he so much as opens his eyes, and while John usually quite enjoys a lie-in, today is not one of those days. Everything feels new and... kind of amazing, really.

John wasn’t lying when he said the night before that the revelation about himself had thrown him quite off the loop for a while. He hadn’t exactly known from the beginning, since at the time that everything had happened, he had acted on pure instinct, had thought about nothing but protecting his infuriatingly brilliant friend. Pushing them both into the water, then breathing life back into an unconscious Sherlock, only to pass out from falling debris himself and be dragged out... both of them really only surviving because they’d had each other... it didn’t leave him with any time to ponder his feelings. Not even touching the other’s lips had ignited any recognition, at the time.

Once John was recuperating, however... all bets had been off. John had nothing but time to remember every gut-wrenching second where he had feared the possibility of maybe having to go on living without Sherlock. He then also remembered the lips... they had been cold, wet and unmoving... but soft (a fact his traitorous mind insistently let him know). And then the eyes had opened, and Sherlock had coughed and spluttered...  
John had the time to remember exactly what the feeling was he had felt in that moment. And in every waking moment since.

To his own surprise, it wasn’t even the fact that he had those feelings that had shaken him so. It was the fact that he didn’t know what to do with them. He even contacted Harry, actually _wanted_ to meet with and talk to her. He scared the crap out of his sister, falling apart in front of her as he did.  
And that was the moment he truly knew just how far his feelings went. Feeling something is one thing, but seeing confirmation in another’s reaction... He knew that this was like nothing he’d ever felt before and most likely never would again for anyone else.

It was the moment he knew that he would stand by Sherlock in whatever way the other would allow, and he would be happy doing it. (Well... not always _happy_ , per se – Sherlock is a terribly annoying person more times than not – but content, like he belonged.)

Things got infinitely more interesting once he realised what Moriarty’s choice in his final victim meant...

 

John smiles, still lying in bed. The one time he’d realised something before Sherlock, the wait turned out to be well worth it.

He gets up, puts on the t-shirt and pyjama bottoms he finds lying on the floor, ready to go out, but stops before he opens the door when he hears muffled voices.

Mycroft.

“Well, that was sooner than I expected,” John murmurs and pushes down the handle, anyway. He knows the two Holmes brothers well enough to be aware that Mycroft doesn’t have to walk in on them to know something has happened within the first glance at either Sherlock or himself. He’d also rather not know what Mycroft’s first words to Sherlock must have been, earlier.

He walks into the living room and is immediately greeted with a cheerful, “Good morning, John,” from Mycroft, though the other man doesn’t turn around. Sherlock, who is sitting facing John fully dressed, looks disgruntled.

John has an idea as to the why... If Moriarty has known about Sherlock’s feelings, and even John himself has known, then it is safe to assume that Mycroft is no different. And what with the tender bond between the brothers, Sherlock must have absolutely _hated_ realising that his brother had one up on him. Literally _on him_ , which for Sherlock most likely only makes it worse.

From the way Sherlock is shooting daggers at Mycroft, hardly looking at John at all, it very much appears to John as if he’s right in that assessment.  
“Anyone up for tea?” John asks, neutrally.

“No, thank you,” Mycroft replies instantly, as if he’s been waiting for that question. “I won’t be staying long.”

“No, he won’t,” Sherlock confirms.

John takes that to mean that Sherlock will be needing a very strong tea, very soon. “Alright, then.” He turns to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Sherlock looks after him for half a second, then glares at his brother again. “What with all the eager and obedient foot soldiers under your command, I fail to see what you need me for.”

Mycroft idly twists the ever present umbrella in his hand with the tip on the floor. (If he keeps doing that at every visit, the rug is bound to have a hole in it, soon.)  
“Other matters are keeping myself and my people busy, these days. You on the other hand... are quite uncommitted at the moment.”

Which translates to, _’I’m at my wits’ end, and my people, much as it pains me to admit, aren’t anywhere near your calibre,’_ John suspects. Unfortunately, Mycroft can be as unmoving as his brother.  
John also knows Sherlock, and the meaning of the words couldn’t have escaped him, either. Sherlock would surely brush off both the words and the meaning. Whether or not he would help anyway, John isn’t quite sure.  
Then, Sherlock surprises him.

“On one condition.”

From the way Mycroft straightens in his seat, John isn’t the only one surprised. “I’m listening.” Mycroft tries very hard to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

Sherlock stares him down. “I know you’ve so far only shown a passing interest, but that is going to change if you want my help.”

“Passing interest...?” Mycroft doesn’t phrase it as a question, as if it isn’t worth his time.

Sherlock’s eyes flash, and his voice is hard. “I want Jim Moriarty’s head on a platter.”

Mycroft considers his brother. “It is very unlike you to give up one of your cat and mouse games.”

Sherlock stares for just a moment longer, before his expression falters and he averts his eyes.

“I see...” Mycroft says slowly. “Well,” he declares decisively and stands, holding out the file in his left hand to Sherlock. “I can of course not guarantee that we will catch him, but I _can_ make him a top priority.”

Now _Sherlock_ looks surprised. John isn’t. Despite their... feud... Mycroft has always worried about his brother, and, so it seems, that now includes John.

The brothers share a long look before Sherlock takes the file.

Mycroft tilts his head slightly to the side, indicating that he is still aware of John’s presence. “I’ll do my part,” he says. “And you’ll do yours.”

Sherlock neither confirms nor denies, he just leans back in his seat, but the file remains in his hand.

Mycroft, apparently happy with that answer, turns to leave. “Good day, gentlemen.”

John leans against the doorframe to the kitchen when the door closes behind Mycroft. “New case?”

Sherlock clears his throat, feigning nonchalance. “Apparently.”

Not wanting to embarrass Sherlock any further, John turns away and tends to their tea. “Must be an important one,” John calls from the kitchen after a moment. “What with your brother practically accepting to carry out an assassination in return.”

“Must be,” Sherlock agrees noncommittally. “Or maybe he just likes you.”

John smirks and puts their tea on a tray. “Not the brother I’m interested in.” He carries the tray into the living room, finding Sherlock looking at the file grinning and puts it down.  
He then kneels in front of Sherlock’s chair, lays a careful hand on Sherlock’s right holding the file and pushes it down to make the other man look at him. He takes the least threatening position he can think of and uses only minimal force to push down the hand, and, eventually, it works; Sherlock returns his look, if cautiously.  
“Are you alright?” John asks.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock, despite his answer, is on the defensive. Yes, applying caution is definitely the right course of action.

John considers his words for a long, tense moment. “You know, I’m trying to figure out whether it is better to just let you stew over every one of the reasons why you might be slightly less than alright yourself, or whether I should make you face it head-on.”

Sherlock blinks but doesn’t hesitate long. Clearly, he has thought about that as well. “My mind feels more... structured than it has in the past weeks, and I’d like to believe that I am now self-aware enough to realise should I need... urging on. If you believe that I’m wrong, feel free to point it out.”

John tilts his head and averts his eyes, then he nods. “Okay.” He looks back. “What you just did. Asking your brother for help. It was... very unlike you.”

Sherlock’s jaw tenses. “It was rational.”

“Absolutely, yes,” John agrees immediately but holds Sherlock’s eyes with his, a question hovering within the look. Sherlock has gone against his nature because of the changes and revelations the last day has brought with it, and it is the actual reason John wants to know if his lover is truly alright.

Sherlock reads John like the open book that he is and takes a deep but relaxing breath. “I’m alright,” he says, indeed looking at ease.

John gets to his feet, holds himself up with one hand on an arm of Sherlock’s chair and cups his head with the other before he leans in for a kiss.

Sherlock allows himself to return it, but John can clearly tell that his mind isn’t all there, so he ends it gently and sits in his own chair, pouring the tea.

“So. What’s the case, then?” John asks, easing them out of their... _moment_.

Sherlock clears his throat and lifts the file again. “Domestic murder, or at least made to look like one.”

“Okay...”

“Except there is no body.”

“Ah.”

“The wife was found wandering along the Thames, covered in her husband’s blood, claiming not to remember a thing. The authorities assumed that she must have thrown him into the water, but they haven’t found anything yet.”

John turns that over in his head. “Is the blood fresh?” he asks, because, well, he _has_ learned a thing or two...

Sherlock grins. “Some of it.”

“But not all of it.”

“No. The blood on her hands – and the most likely to be tested first – was fresh. As was some small part of the blood on her clothes. The largest part on her clothes, however...”

“Who was he, then?”

Sherlock hands the file to John, takes out his phone and starts thumbing in a text message.

John looks at the information. Logistics in a small company. Mostly national, some of it international. The man has been known to take over the odd transport himself.  
“You think he’s had his hands in some smuggling?”

Sherlock hits send on his phone and shoves it back into his pocket. “No. You don’t go to that much trouble to kidnap a man just to get to something he’s stolen. You’d want a quick answer, you’d involve the wife, whatever else he holds dear. You wouldn’t stage a murder. No, no. If they need people to think that he’s dead, they need him to do something for them. Maybe to get into a place he has access to, maybe to get information he has gained or is at least able to gain. Most likely it has to do with one of his foreign freight runs, since the police are now busy combing the Thames, running a murder investigation _in_ the country.”

“Why’s your brother interested in him then? That could give us a starting point.”

“He didn’t say.”

John blinks at him. “Isn’t that kind of counter-productive?”

“Not at all, no. I might uncover information he hasn’t if I go about finding everything I need on my own.”

John considers that. It seems silly to him, but he supposes Sherlock also has a point.

“Well?” Sherlock asks.

“Well what?”

“Where would you start, doctor?” He grins.

John doesn’t much care for that type of grin but is still kind of mellow from the past night, so he feels indulgent. “I’d check out what kind of freight runs he’s done out of the country, recently.”

Sherlock shoots out of his seat and claps his hands. “Excellent! Get dressed, John, we’re on the job.”

 

What that turns out to mean is that John is the one to get the freight plans, while Sherlock uses his connections (Lestrade) to get to question the addled wife.

When John joins Lestrade outside one of the rooms used for questioning, Sherlock is still inside, sitting opposite the woman who is huddled in her seat.

“How long has he been in there?” John asks.

Lestrade holds out an incredulous hand towards the window. “He’s been at it a full _hour_ , and all he gets are inane ramblings. Frankly, I don’t know what he’s still doing. Never mind that her psychiatrist is breathing down my neck every five minutes.” He glances at his watch. “He’d better get what he wants fast, because this session will very soon be interrupted.”

John looks through the window, and indeed, Sherlock is just listening to the woman sitting in her chair with her knees drawn close to her body, rocking back and forth and her hand every now and again wave in an uncoordinated and jerky movement.

And just as Lestrade has predicted, the psychiatrist appears after another two minutes and accompanies her patient out of the room, shooting a glare at Sherlock who remains seated until the two are out of sight. Then he grins widely and leaves as well, joining John and Lestrade.

“You have a liar on your hands, Inspector,” he says without preamble. “A very, _very_ skilled liar, but a liar nonetheless.”

Lestrade gapes at him. “You’re saying that was all an act?”

“Obviously. Is she going to be transferred to a mental ward?”

Lestrade blinks, thrown off track. “Well, yes. You think she’ll try to dash?”

Sherlock’s eyes dart briefly to the side. “She’ll want to know that the operation went over without a hitch. _Then_ she will dash.” A delighted grin blooms on his face. “And extra surveillance won’t keep her from doing it, in case you were considering doubling security.”

Lestrade crosses his arms. “So we have a criminal here, and we can’t stop her from escaping? Is that it?”

Sherlock chuckles. “I’d like to see you try and get past her psychiatrist’s report...”

Lestrade rubbed his face.

“I can’t get you Mrs Andrea Morrison – her name as fake as her marriage, by the way – at least not right now. The operation she’d like to bring to a successful conclusion, however, is a different matter entirely, as well as her husband’s disappearance.”  
He turns to John for the first time since leaving the room. “John?”

John is caught off guard, but only hesitates a second. “In the last three months, the only time he left the country was for a cargo run to Italy less than a week ago.”

“Then we will be going to Italy,” Sherlock declares, walking ahead. “I hear it’s lovely this time of the year.”

John sends a helpless look to Lestrade who waves him off, but the moment he’s following Sherlock, he can’t help but grin. Italy _is_ nice this time of the year. Not that he expects seeing any of the sights...

*

Only hours later, they settle on the train from the airport in Rome, and John leafs through a city guide he insisted buying while they had been waiting to board their plane in London.

“Where is our hotel again?” he asks.

Sherlock’s lip twitches, but he doesn’t turn to look at the map. “We will be taking a taxi from the Stazione Termini.”

John looks up. “Why didn’t we take a taxi from the airport then? Since we’ll be needing one, anyway?”

Now Sherlock looks at him. “The airport is thirty-two kilometres from the centre. You’re the one who’s always worried about money.”

“Oh.” John returns to look at the map. “Thank you.” All this... considerate behaviour is kind of making him nervous; very, very warm and fuzzy, but also nervous.

Sherlock for his part takes out Mr Morrison’s freight plan again. Suddenly, he holds out his hand. “May I?”

“Hm? Oh.” John hands him the city guide, and Sherlock trades it for the freight plan to have both hands free, then takes out a pen and starts scribbling on the fold-out map. He circles places and follows the streets. Once he’s finished, he holds it out to John and points with his pen.

“He did his computer hardware deliveries to Via di Portonaccio,” he points at it, “and Via Condotti, here.”

“Okay...”

“He had to have come along here,” he follows the roads again with his pen. “And the hotel he was staying at is here at the Via Capo d’Africa. It’s a tourist spot, right behind the Colosseum. He didn’t exactly have a lot of reasons to stay there. It’s decidedly impractical and expensive. He had to leave behind his truck somewhere else. They will hardly accommodate freight trucks for an overnight stay.”

“Wait, wait.” John’s mind is still on something Sherlock has said early on. “Capo d’Africa? Isn’t that the name of the hotel we’re staying at?”

“Of course it is.”

John rubs his face. “What was that again about saving money?”

Sherlock shifts haughtily. “Not when it concerns the case, John.”

“Of _course_ not.” John shakes his head. Why is he even surprised, anymore?

“I did book a double, if that appeases you.”

John shoots him a suspicious look. “And?”

Sherlock smirks. “I may have told them we were on our honeymoon.”

“What?!” John only just managed to hold back a shriek, and it came out as a indignant hiss, instead.

“If you give people something to notice about you, they are less likely to notice anything _else_... Very basic rule of hiding, John.”

John huffs. He’s kind of amused – and Sherlock knows it – but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have valid concerns. Concerns he finds himself care less and less about. “I have a condition,” he finally says.

“I’m listening.”

“Once the case is over, we’re staying another night to take care of that honeymoon you spoke of.”

Sherlock grins. “I booked three nights. That should do it.”

John blinks. Sherlock has _planned_ this. Well, not the trip to Rome, per se, but... He can’t help it, he has to grin back and takes Sherlock’s hand in his for a moment, ignoring the scandalised look they get from an elderly woman across the aisle.

Sherlock squeezes John’s hand, once, then lets it go again to continue with his scribbles and scanning the map. “I’ve never been one to ignore what I want,” Sherlock says, already sounding distracted with whatever his brain is getting from the routes and probably time frames to go with them.

John chuckles. “No. No, you’re really not.” When put that way, John shouldn’t have been surprised.

 

Eventually, they manage to check into their hotel with minimal fuss. They are, however, very much noticed, as Sherlock has predicted, and offered sincere-sounding congratulations on their happy union. There is even a bottle of champagne in their room as well as a heart shaped flower arrangement.

Sherlock inconspicuously tips the porter rather generously with a polite, “Per lo sforzo,” while John is thankfully busy looking at the room and holding back a silly giggle.

The door closes behind the porter, and John sits on the bed and lets out the giggle, anyway. “So, now what, Mrs Watson?”

Sherlock grins. “Now... we’ll have to do some shopping. We need to fit in tonight.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Fit in?”

Sherlock throws the freight plan next to John on the bed. “According to this, the truck didn’t go home, and I am going to question Mr Morrison going anywhere after that, as well. He must have stayed, here, then. Not at Via Condotti, that’s where the tourists like to spend the large amounts of money.” He leafs through John’s city guide. “So it must be the night club where he made his other delivery, at Via di Portonaccio. Former factory building, now one of the largest nightclubs.” He holds open the city guide at the right page and points at it. “Even if there were someone in this hotel who knows about the goings-on because of Mr Morrison’s stay – which I doubt – two men on their honeymoon asking for a taxi to take them there will be nothing out of the ordinary.”

John takes and stares at the guide, then at Sherlock. “You’re taking us to a gay club.”

“Yes, hence the shopping,” Sherlock confirms, already rummaging through his suitcase. “This is not my usual attire, nor does my collection of camouflages include it.” He quickly eyes John up and down. “Could be interesting.”

John in advertently blushes, and he clears his throat. “We could go for the underwear trick Moriarty used.”

Sherlock huffs and straightens. “Please. I do insist on some bare minimum of taste.” He grins and holds out his hand. “Shall we?”

John does take the hand and lets himself be pulled up. “Just so you know, I’m not going to hold your hand for the whole of our shopping trip.”

Sherlock chuckles but lets go of the hand and instead holds open the door and lets John exit before him with the hand on the small of his back this time, all the while grinning widely.

John blushes again. “Stop it. I’m not the girl in this relationship.”

“Of course you’re not,” Sherlock answers a bit too readily. He doesn’t do so because he questions John’s statement, he does it because...

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” John accuses him.

Sherlock laughs again. “Making you fluster is rather entertaining.” He turns to grin at John. “And now that I have the means to do so...”

“You’re going to be insufferable,” John finishes for him.

“You can make me laugh, it’s only fair.”

They look at each other, both grinning.

Finally, John sighs. “So. Shopping.”

“Yes, let’s.” They walk out the front door in sync.

“This trip is going to be insanely expensive.”

Sherlock smirks. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. I will charge Mycroft for every last bit of the expenses _and_ our collective services.”

John giggles. “And will you charge him for our extra day in Rome in springtime?”

“Actually... I’m estimating that the case will be closed by early tomorrow morning.”

“ _Two_ days in Rome in springtime,” John corrects himself, grinning. “And you don’t think he’ll protest?”

“Do you think he will?”

John thinks for a moment. “No, you’re right. He won’t.” They walk side by side for a moment longer. “And you won’t climb the walls of boredom within hours of the case closing?”

“I intend to conduct in-depth research on your person,” Sherlock says, making John snort.

“And once you have the results of your research...?” There is a hint of insecurity tingeing John’s voice. That is an open question that bothers him. What happens when the novelty wears off? Sherlock needs constant stimulation, constant challenges…

Sherlock stops walking and turns to look at John. “Did you ever notice that I’m never bored when you’re around?”

John frowns and blinks. “Uh...” At first, he thinks it should be easy to remember Sherlock being bored, but then he realises that it’s harder than he thought to come up with examples. Sherlock regularly _complains_ about being bored, but that is usually when John returns from wherever he’s been that is not in Sherlock’s general vicinity.

“It only just occurred to me on the flight here that you keep my mind busy by making it do something it ordinarily wouldn’t do.” They continue walking, but more slowly. “And you have done so from the beginning.”

“Why? I mean... what am I... doing?”

Sherlock ponders his answer for a long time before he gives it. “There was that film you were watching the other day. The one with the man in the black coat with the sunglasses...”

“The Matrix?”

“Yes, that one. The characters were able to look at the code that makes up the world, including people. Understand?”

John, surprising himself, does understand. “You’re saying... that’s how you see people?”

“Yes!” Sherlock sounds excited at having been understood so easily and decides to use metaphors more often. “There are visual signs and codes that make up a person, and I read them.”

“And once you’ve read the person... it... drops out of sight.” He imagines Sherlock seeing the world as rows and rows of green, glowing signs, falling down a screen and disappearing at the bottom. It would frighten John terribly; it must be just as frightening the other way around.

“In a manner of speaking,” Sherlock agrees, but he looks like he’s not all that happy at having to confirm that to John. “There are... glimpses of people I know well. Like Mrs Hudson or even Lestrade. My brother, unfortunately, seems to be part of my own code, very annoying, and I don’t have to decode him to read him at all.” He takes a deep breath. “You however...”

“Me...?”

“First, I read you, then I placed you where you would be useful... and then...” He shakes his head. “I’m not entirely certain what happened, but then I could see you. All of you.”

“When was that?” John is genuinely curious how he managed that feat.

“I changed part of your code. Just by you being you and me being me.”

John doesn’t follow, now. “What do you mean?”

“Nobody could have _made_ you lose your limp. But _we_ could. You and me. Me, because I wanted to take you along; you, because you needed a reason to forget it.”

John works through that, still half-way in the metaphor and suddenly snickers. “There is no limp.”

“What?”

John just shakes his head. “Sorry, reference to that film you were talking about. No, I get it, though,” he says, actually feeling like he does, on some truly weird level. “You changed the code not by attacking the code itself, but by changing the dynamics within it.”

Sherlock blinks and considers that. “I suppose that works.”

“You never really thought of yourself as part of the system, did you?”

“Introspection isn’t my strong suit, John. But you make _me_ into a code. That never happened before, and it’s very intriguing.”

“So I’m keeping you from getting bored because I’m an anomaly, and because I make you more interesting.”

“ _Us_ , John. You make us _very_ interesting, indeed. After all, _we_ made quite a few changes to each other’s codes, if you will…”

They look at each other, and John wonders when they stopped walking. He doesn’t remember.

“You are an incredibly weird man, Sherlock Holmes, and I truly love you very, very much.”

Sherlock’s eyes glint in a curious and tentative way.

“That just needs saying every now and again,” John continues.

For a very brief moment, it appears as if Sherlock is blushing, but that might just be a trick of the light. He clears his throat anyway. “Shopping?”

“Yes, shopping,” John agrees and starts walking again. “Though I have no idea what one wears to a gay club.”

“I made arrangements ahead of time.”

“Now why am I not surprised?”

“Because you’re interesting.”

Neither looks at the other, but they both grin and continue walking.

 

Sherlock’s preparations turn out to be someone in a clothing shop who owes him a favour (seriously, is there any country in the world where Sherlock hasn’t been piling up favours?) and is all too happy to assist the happy couple in blending in.

John looks at Sherlock being fitted and marvels at the effects the subtle changes have. The trousers are black and fitted – no flashy material like leather or the likes – just stylish black fabric, hugging his lean legs and hips. He is very happy that the vendor (the very same owing Sherlock a favour) chooses a dark purple for his shirt. It’s a different purple than the one Sherlock already owns, it leans more towards the blue, and it buttons only halfway up, the collar simple but unusual enough to attract attention.

Sherlock of course appears entirely uninterested in the changes, and pulls at the sleeves observing the material clinically, finally nodding. That is, John _believed_ Sherlock to be uninterested, right up until the moment he turns and sends John a look that speaks of all manners of things unsuitable for times when in public. It speaks of what has happened the night before, in their own sanctum, back in London, back in 221B. Back home. Their bedroom. Oh, Lord.

Sherlock smirks, then straightens and turns to a decidedly knowing looking vendor. “John next, I think, Luca.”

“My pleasure,” Luca replies very nearly without any trace of an accent and waves John closer.

John draws a shuddering breath and steps closer, pushing all thoughts of ripping the expensive new clothes off his lover. “I won’t be as easy to work with, I’m afraid,” he mumbles.

Luca gives him a once-over and chuckles. “You will find that you are very wrong about that, my friend.”

Sherlock stands by and watches, closely. John – unlike Sherlock – gets dark jeans and a just as tight, long-sleeved, burgundy t-shirt.

Luca walks around him, studying him from head to toe. “You might want to do a little something about your hair...”

Sherlock pushes off the wall he’s been leaning against, walks closer to lean in close to John’s ear. “I did tell you that there’s a difference.”

John smiles benignly, and since he can find no reason not to do it, he turns his head and kisses Sherlock. No more than a small, quick kiss, but it feels so good to being able to just do it. “You’ve made your point.”

“So have you.”

“Hairdresser, then?” John asks, flexing his shoulders in his new wardrobe. “We have enough time until that club opens.”

“We do.”

“Or did you want to sneak around before?”

“No. There will be no need for that. Things will only get interesting once the guest of honour arrives.” He smirks.

“Do I even want to know?”

“Mrs Morrison.”

John stares at him. “The woman who won’t break out of prison until later? That one?”

The smirks widens. “The very same.”

John nods his head in a _I should have known_ gesture and sighs enduringly. “Hairdresser,” he repeats, feeling... uncomfortably unfinished in his attire. He leaves the plans and musings to Sherlock.

 

They’re having dinner after their stop at the hairdresser’s, both now sporting _’product in their hair’_ , and according to the looks they’re getting, the whole make-over is working. John suddenly discovers a newfound respect for his sister.

“Please tell me I never stare at people the way we’re being stared at right now. While they all try to act like they don’t, no less.” He adds the second thought after a heartbeat.

Sherlock doesn’t seem fazed either way. “Your perception is probably a little off because you’re unused to the situation. Not _everyone_ is staring or even interested.”

John gives him a look.

“There is a little more than usual, I’ll give you that. And no,” he adds, “you don’t ever stare like that.”

John thinks about Harry again, and how she had wavered between amused and worried at his confession. He thinks about her coming-out and just how badly that had gone.

“Maybe you should tell your sister about the change in our relationship. I’m sure she would like to know,” Sherlock says, casually.

John blinks, not even hesitating at the unexpected deductions anymore. How Sherlock knows what he was thinking about, how he knows that he has spoken to Harry. He... truly is becoming a part of Sherlock’s particular brand of program. “You’re right,” he agrees and takes out his phone, typing a text message. “I kind of forgot.”

“Can’t imagine why.” Sherlock smirks.

John returns it, but doesn’t look up from his typing. “You are so full of yourself.”

“And rightfully so.”

John’s smirk widens. “I’d argue with that, but you know me well enough to know I’d be lying.” He hits send and feels better immediately to his own surprise. Like his own, personal little coming-out. Merely admitting an interest in a man feels curiously different from saying out loud (or typing, in this case) that the relationship between his friend and himself has changed. John wouldn’t even be surprised if that was something Sherlock has seen coming as well.  
Then a thought occurs to him and his head shoots up. “You’re eating,” he states, wide-eyed.

“Astounding observation.”

“You never eat when you work.” Granted, it is a light meal, but still.

Sherlock merely smirks and demonstratively puts another piece of chicken in his mouth. After swallowing, he takes pity on John. “Relax. The case is closed, we just need to watch it unfold, now.”

John blinks. “You solved it?”

“Of course. It wasn’t hard. Once more, the only truly interesting thing was that my brother insisted I take the case. He either missed the implications or – and this is decidedly more likely – he wanted me to make sure that everything unfolds as planned. Or...” he contemplates another angle, “he’d like to get his hands on Mrs Morrison, but that’s his job and not mine.”

“Why would he want you to help along a crime?”

Sherlock smirks again. “Not a crime, exactly, though some... shady parties will undoubtedly profit.”

John just keeps looking at Sherlock.

“ _Scandal_ , John. It’s an invaluable currency, nowadays.” Sherlock’s face glows with excitement. “And so beautifully executed, too.” He twirls some of his pasta around the fork. “Mycroft probably just wants that politician out of the picture, and deduced that in light of my current... situation... I wouldn’t mind bringing a conservative politician to fall who feels his very young and very male lover needs hiding from the public.” He huffs. “He should know better. I care neither about politics nor about scandals.”

John tilts his head. “And yet, here you are, solving a puzzle that hardly needed solving, and adding some holiday time, too.” He watches Sherlock chew and decides that he’s probably safe to tease him a bit. “Maybe Mycroft deduced correctly that you’d do it for me...”

“You care.”

“About taking down a hypocrite? You bet.” He averts his eyes. “And maybe you can separate... us... from the political situation, but I can’t.” He sighs. “I’m actually surprised at how much I can’t. And here I thought I was supportive before.”

Sherlock looks at him until John raises his head again. “You were and are supportive, that much is obvious even to me, and I can hardly be accused of overtly accommodating other’s needs. Naturally, your view would change,” he says softly. “The outside view is as needed as the inside view, and now you are one of the few who have both.”

“What about you, then?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I don’t believe that being on either side is useful to me.” He pauses. “But you’re right, of course.”

“About what?”

“I’m on your side.” He shifts. “And I suppose Mycroft would know that,” he allows, grudgingly. “As far as he ever knows something.”

John smiles, and they return to their dinner.

 

They exit the taxi in front of the night club, and John asks what he hasn’t dared to before while they could have been overheard by the driver. (For some reason or other, John is weary around cabbies.) “So... how is that scandal supposed to work?”

“Jewellery, obviously.”

John is about to roll his eyes when he remembers something about Morrison’s second delivery. “The two deliveries are linked?”

“Very much so,” Sherlock confirms. “I did a little tabloid research earlier.” He holds out his phone. “It looks like our politician made the mistake of crossing several influential business families...” he smirked, “... one of them being the family of his lover. They also do not approve of his covering everything up.”

“If the affair is secret, how do you know who a man is nobody knows about.”

Sherlock smirks. “I had an idea that it might be something along those lines, once I saw the two delivery addresses. Then I... contacted someone who would know.”

“How many people do you know around the globe anyway?”

Sherlock strides past the main entrance and towards one to the side immediately. They’re being awaited.  
“Massimo,” Sherlock greeted and held out his hand.

Massimo took it. “Sherlock, good to see you.”

“This is Doctor John Watson.”

Massimo takes his hand, too. “John.”

John nods.

Massimo turns to Sherlock, again. “He is here. In the back, like usual.” He opens the door wider and lets them both enter.

“Along with the hardware that has been delivered on Monday, has there perchance been an additional smaller package with a certain recipient?”

Massimo clears his throat. “I can of course not confirm any such deliveries,” he says, a small smile playing around his lips. “I can also not confirm the presence of journalists and photographers who might print tomorrow that a purchase of some jewellery – like, say, a ring – by a certain recipient has taken place.”

“And said photographers will not be lying in wait to take a picture of the wearer, of course?”

“If they do, my good friend, then I know nothing of it.” Massimo shows Sherlock and John to the main area and waves them through. “If there is anything else, please do not hesitate to let me know.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, guiding a hesitant John through the door with a hand on his back, the pounding music already vibrating through their bodies.

They are overlooking the main dance floor from an advantage point one story up, standing at a railing, but still far enough away for words to carry, and Massimo is used to making his voice carry in less optimal circumstances. “And I do hope you will enjoy your stay regardless of politics.” The mischievous smirk on his face indicates that he will be enjoying the evening particularly _because_ of the mentioned politics.

Once the door shuts behind them, John clears his throat and leans closer to Sherlock. “Exactly why is your brother interested in taking down this politician?”

“There is a vote coming up. I assume he wants it to go in a certain direction, and taking out a weak link is the easiest way to accomplish it.”

John nods. “A ring, then?”

“Yes. A very particular, very expensive ring. Bulgari has sold it a week ago to an unknown buyer, and since then, someone obviously must have leaked to the press who the buyer was. All they need to complete the scandal is the person the ring was intended for.”

“So... where do the Morrisons come in?”

“The _Morrisons_... are both fake. Mr Morrison works for Mycroft – not a very convincing cover, I might add – another reason for my brother to be interested in his disappearance. He had access to both Bulgari and this club; he was the only one in a position to leak all the necessary information to the press and orchestrate tonight by using his contacts he undoubtedly possesses due to his work for Mycroft. He had to do so without anyone knowing where he has disappeared to to keep up his cover as _’Mr Morrison’_ , since he very clearly has been involved in his supposed wife’s undoubtedly numerous plots. Mrs Morrison is his target where my brother is concerned, but I don’t think she was supposed to find out.”

“And she did?”

Sherlock smirks. “Oh, she is much too smart for my brother.”

John can’t help but snicker. “Too smart for you to catch her, or just smart enough for you to want to let her go?”

Sherlock huffs. “The latter of course.” He smirks again, the indignation quickly forgotten. “For now.”

John shakes his head. It is a nice change of pace, for once seeing Sherlock puzzle without anyone being in mortal peril. Interesting enough to keep them both on their toes, harmless enough not to interfere with the... mellow mood.

“She is not my problem. In addition...” he pulls John closer with an arm around his waist and finished the sentence close to his ear, “... there are other matters that require my attention, and since Mycroft only hired me to find his wayward employee, that is what I did.”

John shivers when Sherlock’s lips brush over the spot just behind his ear, and his eyes flutter and fall closed.

“Feeling this level of attraction is entirely novel to me...” There is a quizzical quality to his voice.

John pushes him away, slightly, so that he can look at his face, only to discover that the expression is as curious as the voice. John’s lips quirk, amused. “Your emotions are currently lying on the operating table and you’re dissecting them, aren’t you?”

That startles a chuckle out of Sherlock. “They are a right bloody mess, that is true.”

John leans in to press a small, slow kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “And what are they doing when I do this?” Another kiss.

Sherlock shudders. “They are... reacting.” He returns and deepens the kiss for a moment. “They react even more to _your_ reactions.” He runs both his hands through John’s hair. “That _I_ can be the one to make you look like this...” He shakes his head, incredulous, then smirks a superior little smile. “I suppose it’s only fair, since you are the one to do it to me in return...”

Now the wondrous expression is on John’s face. After a short moment, however, he decisively takes Sherlock’s hand. “Okay.” He clears his throat. “I’m in one of Europe’s most famous gay night clubs with my first male lover of less than twenty-four hours,” he pulls at the hand and directs them towards the stairs leading down to the dance floor, “... we might as well.”

Sherlock chuckles, but his eyes already roam over the other dancing people, trying to imagine himself copying their movements. “I am not sure I will be any good at this type of dancing.” Merely following classic steps comes easily to him, all he has to do is memorise them. This, on the other hand...

John remains resolute. “I’m told it’s like sex with your clothes on.” He peeks at another clubber wearing decidedly little of that. “More or less.” He pulls Sherlock close. “Do you remember the way you moved above me? Because I do...”

Sherlock does. Very much so, and after a moment of hesitation, he applies the same undulating movement along the length of John’s body. Except that this time, instead of using their breathing and heart beat to guide his rhythm, he finds that allowing the thrumming bass of the music to do the same is precisely what is expected of him. He also finds that it is... immensely satisfying. It is even more so once John responds in kind, his expression as close to having sex as it would ever get in public.

After a couple of minutes, John laughs exhilaratingly. “You...” he points a finger at the strip of bare skin on Sherlock’s chest, “... are _very_ good at this.” He is also quite surprised at how easily he himself is being pulled into the music and the dancing, neither of which being what he usually favours.  
And, because nobody cares and many of the other dancing couples do the same, he pulls Sherlock into a deep and passionate kiss.

Despite Sherlock being carried away a little, and the reactions of his body becoming harder to ignore (curse them), he is still keeping an eye on the entrance, waiting for Mrs Morrison and/or the lover of the unnamed politician. And just as his hands decide to wander and cup John’s ass, he sees her and for the barest of moments freezes.

The moment is enough to get John’s attention. He looks up in askance.

“Mrs Morrison,” Sherlock mouths and turns so that John can see her.

John raises an eyebrow. “She looks decidedly like someone who is most definitely _not_ in shock.” And she is also no alone, accompanying a young man through the crowd. John blinks. “ _That_ ’s the ring?”

“It would appear so.” Sherlock turns again so he can watch how another man greets Mrs Morrison with a kiss and takes over the duty of bringing her charge to a guarded door. “Enter _Mr_ Morrison.”

“Shouldn’t your brother be informed?”

“I texted him hours ago when and where he can pick up his lost employee,” he answers, disinterested. “He’s probably outside right now.” He doesn’t care about his brother or even the scene that is undoubtedly in the process of taking place backstage... he is much more interested in Mrs Morrison who with a small smirk heads towards a side door that Sherlock knows leads to a corridor used for deliveries and then to one of the emergency exits. He smirks, grabs John’s hand and drags him towards a different exit.

“Where are we going? The press probably already have their pictures and everything is in motion...”

“Oh yes, it is. I have a feeling Mrs Morrison doesn’t expect the press to get another picture with the lover wearing the ring.” He grins.

“What?”

They slam open the emergency exit door and walk around the building towards the other side, waiting just out of sight. Sherlock peeks around the corner and signs John to wait.

They don’t have to wait for long. After a mere five minutes, Mrs Morrison appears as expected, well hidden in the dark from the main entrance where there is still a long line of people hoping to get inside. She tightly grabs the strap of her handbag and is about to head for a parked car when a hand on her arm holds her back.

“Mrs Morrison,” Sherlock greets her with a dangerously amused smile on his face.

She startles for no more than the fraction of a second, before she smiles, charmingly. “Mr Holmes. So nice to see you again.”

Sherlock immediately categorises her regular speech pattern that confirms what his earlier analysis of the fake shock has implied. _American. Jersey. Slightly diluted accent: lots of travelling. Used to money... Used to having to get it herself._ He holds out his hand. “The ring,” he demands, unmistakeably.

The charming smile turns even sweeter. “Surely you would not deprive a girl of her compensation.”

Sherlock’s responding smile is decidedly shark-like. “I highly doubt that you did not receive advance payment for your skilled services.” The side of his face turned towards the main entrance begins to flash in whites and blues, and her eyes widen fractionally. “They might not be able to keep you for long, Mrs Morrison, but it would be such a bother if they were to catch you again, after you’ve only just escaped their clutches, wouldn’t you agree?”

She scowls at him, but shoves her hand into her pocket and all but slams the ring into Sherlock’s waiting hand. Then the smile is back. “I will be seeing you again, Mr Holmes. Do try to be on your guard, I prefer the challenge.” She gives Sherlock and John a slightly amused once-over and leaves with her car.

John crosses his arms. “You actually just let her go.”

Sherlock shrugs. “It really would have been no more than a bother to her.”

“And yet, she gave you the ring, anyway.”

“You think it wouldn’t have been confiscated had she been captured?”

“Ah. Right. There is that, I suppose.”

Sherlock grins. “It also gives her a reason to try and get it back...”

John stares at him. “Please tell me you don’t intend to keep it.”

Sherlock just looks at him, incredulous. “Why ever not? It has not been stolen. My guess is that the politician tried to do damage control and demanded it back, or the lover has tried to get rid of it in a huff. Either way, it has been paid for, and I have been given it.”

John just keeps staring and opens his mouth repeatedly, no sound coming out.

Sherlock smirks and holds out his hand. “Shall we?”

Now John stares at the hand.

“There is, after all, a honeymoon suite waiting for us.”

That on the other hand is something John’s brain has no trouble processing. He huffs a laugh, shakes his head and takes the offered hand. “You do have a point, there.”

When they are heading towards one of the waiting taxis, they catch a glimpse of Mycroft standing next to some police cars. He notices them as well and gives them a brief nod.

With that, Sherlock considers his involvement in the case as terminated and focuses on what lies ahead of them (and hopefully _under_ him, soon).

 

They all but tumble into their room, wrapped around each other in a kiss and slam the door behind them.

John pulls Sherlock’s shirt up and over his head – still present enough to not rip it (that would have been a shame) and gasps once more of that tantalising skin is revealed. “This is an interesting way to work off a case high.” He rips off his own shirt.

Sherlock smirks. “I could get used to it.” He walks John backwards to the bed, pushes him onto it, and, finding the bouncing decidedly inviting, climbs over him within the blink of an eye. “To be fair, though, this case didn’t require all the higher thought processes. You however...” He doesn’t think that this requires further explanation and devours John’s gasping mouth.

John winds his arms and legs tightly around Sherlock’s body, and returns the kiss with everything he’s got. Suddenly, he gasps and laughs into the kiss. “How is it that you get to be on top both when you’re topping and when you’re bottoming?”

Sherlock chuckles onto John’s lips. “Would you like some control back?”

John pretends to consider that. “Not right now,” he says, but then runs a possessive hand into Sherlock’s hair, firmly holding onto it. “But don’t get used to it.”

Sherlock’s shark-like grin is back, and John understands why Mrs Morrison agreed to hand over the ring immediately. Sherlock leans in and brushes his lips over John’s cheek and jaw. “I’m absolutely counting on you covering all the angles in time.” With that, he first licks over John’s lips and then into his mouth to claim it once more.

John decides that his has been a point well made and enjoys the ride.

Sherlock loses no time to rid both of them of their remaining clothes – John making more or less helpful kicking motions.  
His slow and thorough ministrations on himself the last time had had several goals: one, they were supposed to physically prepare him for penetration; two: John had to get more used to the sexual situation without having to participate actively; and three...: he needed to know everything there was to know so he could apply it to John.  
The latter is very useful to him, now that he has John writhing beneath him, his slick fingers working into the willing body, while the other hand firmly pumps his dick in time with the fingers. He remembers the location of the prostate, remembers the effect it was having on him, and he now carefully brushes it, receiving the most delicious reactions. He discovers that John is also very sensitive right behind the first ring of muscles and lets his fingers twist and turn and ignite all of the nerve endings they encounter.

Once John is a trembling, incoherent mess, having four slowly fucking fingers within him, and he starts thrashing his head back and forth, Sherlock pulls away and looks around. He will need... something. The angle isn’t quite right like this...  
He grabs a pillow and urges John to lift his hips. “This should make it easier,” he explains.

John waves a shaky hand and makes a grunting sound, indicating that he doesn’t care what the hell Sherlock is doing, as long as he _keeps going_. And then Sherlock is on him, and in him, and it’s perfect, and... John can’t for the life of him say why he’s never done this before.

Sherlock desperately tries to keep reading John, to detach his body far enough from his emotions to prolong this, but the sensations rip away his control, shred by torturous shred, leaving only John as his anchor.

John for his part forces his eyes open so that he can watch Sherlock coming undone, again. The man looks entirely different from the last time, as if the very core of his being needs to acclimatise to the loss of control each and every time, anew. Sherlock looks young, so, so young, with his eyes losing focus and closing; sweaty curls sticking to his forehead; the gasping, rosy lips in the pale, overwhelmed face... And the sounds, _God_ , the sounds he is making.  
Then the otherworldly eyes open, staring helplessly into John’s.

“John,” he whispers.

All John can do is cling to Sherlock with his arms and legs, loosening one arm enough so that he can cup his cheek. _Love you’_ , he mouths. _’Love you... love..._ ’  
“Sherlock...”

And Sherlock loses it. He loses himself, loses any sense of his surroundings, loses his _mind_. All but John, and the world goes black.

When Sherlock slowly returns, he is being held, tenderly, and a hand is running up and down his back. He lifts his head and is greeted with the most gorgeous smile that he returns... until he feels that at least one part of John isn’t yet satisfied and is poking him insistently. The smile falters, and he tries to push himself up.

John refuses to let him go, however, and pulls his head into the crook of his neck. “Shh. Just stay a bit.”

Sherlock’s muscles go slack again, and he breathes into John’s neck, mouthing the skin. Being who he is, it doesn’t take him long to regain his mental faculties, and he rolls slightly to the side – just enough to firmly stroke John with his hand while still being held. John’s insides twitch, and Sherlock slips out with a slight wince, but he doesn’t stop and instead adds firmer kisses, licks and bites to John’s neck, feeling moans vibrate along the throat.  
It is mere minutes before John shudders underneath Sherlock and releases a breathy moan.

Sherlock gives the dick a parting stoke, smirking at the little jerk John’s body reacts with, and possessively licks the hickey he has created. His eyes flash at the mark, and he ventures another sharp bite.

John chuckles. “What does my neck look like?” he asks, still breathing harshly.

“Like you belong to me,” Sherlock growls.

John hums and runs a hand through Sherlock’s hair. “Okay then...” he replies sleepily.

After too short a moment, Sherlock rolls off John and stumbles (gracefully) into the bathroom to clean up, returns with a wet cloth to make sure John would be comfortable for sleeping, climbs back into the bed... and they fall asleep before the smiles on their faces manage to disappear.

*

They’re having breakfast around noon, sitting at the small table in their room, feeling almost as if they were at home (Sherlock hides behind a newspaper, and John generally smiles at the day).

Sherlock mentally prepares for a mostly boring day of pounding the streets along the generic tourist-y spots. He doesn’t necessarily mind roaming a new city, it gives him a feel for the people and the way they function and are likely to react and helps him categorise Mediterranean cultural behaviour. The areas designed for tourists, however, are meant to entertain while being disguised as being educational and making sure that people leave money behind. Tourist areas aren’t _real_ , they’re artificial. He supposes he can trot along and keep his eyes on more hidden codes, and...

Sherlock blinks and looks up in askance when John pushes down his newspaper and hands him the city guide. “Yes?”

“Well, there you go, then,” John just says.

Sherlock tilts his head.

“That’s Rome. Decode it for me.”

Sherlock takes hold of the small book and a slow smile grows on his face. He really does love this man.


	3. Points of View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Outside views and inside views.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve done a POV chapter in another fandom, and wanted to try it out with this one too :)  
> Beta: hobbittchi (LJ) ♥

_Harry_

Harry fiddles with her napkin, but she stops once she notices she’s doing it and can see her hands tremble on the table. She snatches them back and clasps her fingers together in her lap, taking a deep breath.

John never calls her because he wants to meet up. He occasionally accepts an invitation – very occasionally – but he does not ever seek her out. Nevertheless, this is why she is here.

She would have liked more time before meeting John again. This time, anyway. This time, she would have preferred to wait until she’d be able to tell him, _’Hey, guess what? It’s been a month, since…’_ Instead, it’s been four days, and she knows that she looks accordingly.

Then there is no more time to worry. John enters, looking as fidgety as Harry feels.

He sits in front of her, and despite her silent plea, his eyes dart to her half empty glass, and his eyebrows shoot up.  
“Coke?”

Harry crosses her arms, averts her eyes and shrugs off his question (that is incredibly loaded, particularly considering that he has said no more than one single word). “Just…” she waves a hand. “Just something I’m trying out.” The unspoken words are hanging over the table, _’Please leave it be, John, I’m not ready. Not ready. Please, if you ever wanted to help me, do it now.’_

John’s lips lift in a short smile, then he clears his throat. Despite their differences, their fraternal telepathy seems in perfect working order. “Shall we order food, then?” he asks, leaving everything else for another time that he sincerely hopes will actually come, unlike all the other ones.

They order and then wait for their food, John’s eyes darting around as if he was the one detoxing and not Harry.

Finally, she has enough and grabs both of John’s hands with her own. “Enough already!” she snaps, then catches herself and forces a smile. “What on earth is going on?”

“How did you know?” John blurts out and immediately regrets it. What kind of stupid question is that, anyway?

Harry frowns. “Know what?”

John just looks at her, desperately trying to tap into the sibling telepathy again, and... he knows that it works when her eyes widen.

“Oh, my God.”

John’s eyes dart around. “Just... don’t... yell or anything,” he begs.

“Oh, my God.” A grin grows on her face, one of the kind she hardly ever smiles anymore, then she gleefully leans forward. “It’s your flatmate, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

John looks around again, nervously. “It’s not... nothing happened. It’s just... it’s just me.”

She smirks. “You’re sure it’s not just because you hit your head?”

He scowls at her, and she giggles (which makes him feel somewhat better). He sighs. “I have no idea what to do with this.”

“Well, you did say you weren’t quite sure about him...”

John huffs, frustrated. “It’s not about him. It’s about me. I don’t know where the hell this came from and if it has always been there, or... if... I don’t even know what else there is!”

That one is easy. “Well, only you can answer that. Has there ever been anything?”

John rubs his face. “I don’t know. Nothing serious. Just... a thought every now and again, sure. I’m only human. But... I like women. Always have and still do. I just never thought about... the other option.” He purses his lips in frustration when he realises that he can’t quite say it yet. He also remembers why he is here with is sister. “I just need to know... what is happening with me. What I am.”

She rolls her eyes. “So you’ve discovered some bisexual tendencies. What do you want? A number on the Kinsey scale? Two. There. Happy?”

John rather looks like he’s been hit by a truck. “What?”

“John...” her voice is as soft as she knows how with her brother. It’s not much, but it’s a start. “You fell in love, and you think the other person is not interested. That’s actually the part that matters. Because if you thought you could have him, you wouldn’t worry about equipment, either his or yours.”

John blinks. Trust his sister to be frank.

“You love him, and I think it’s safe to say that he somehow cares for you, weird fucker that he is...”

John’s lip twitches.

“... so the real question is, will that be enough? Can you stand being around him?”

Their food arrives and John leans back in his seat to make room for the waiter. Harry’s tendency to club him across the head with whatever words strike her fancy usually irritates him. Today, it’s just what he needs. He can’t help but smile.

Harry has the decency to wait until they’re on their own again, before she crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow expectantly.

John sighs again. “I think, at this point, I couldn’t bear being anywhere else, anymore.”

Harry gets a very thoughtful look on her face. “Self-destructive tendencies run in the family, apparently.”

John nods, absently, then suddenly shakes himself. “No, I... I was being self-destructive before him.”

“You did almost get blown up, though.” She actually smirks at that.

He can hardly hear her. “I kept my gun, did you know that?” he says, sounding far away.

Harry has the feeling that she will not like where this is going. “From the army.”

John nods, staring at his food. “There was no reason to keep it, really. I mean, I could, of course, but there was no reason. It was not like I needed it.” His chin leans on his enlaced fingers, his thumbs plays with his lip. “It was in my bedside drawer. Just lying there. Waiting.” He shudders, involuntarily, remembering what the knowledge of the weapon lying harmlessly in his drawer has felt like. Calling... always calling.

Harry stares at him, white as a sheet when he looks up.

John clears his throat and puts on a smile that he actually means a bit. “I still have it, but... well.” The smile turns more honest. “And...” he pats his leg, “... no more limping.”

Harry curses herself for not being more insistent in trying to stay in touch with John. Decisively, she eats a bite, then declares, “I want to meet him.”

John’s eyes widen. “Not sure that’s such a good idea...” All the things that he can think of Sherlock throwing at her run through his mind, and he knows that Sherlock can come up with many, many more...

She waves him off. “I can deal with his royal cattiness, don’t worry.

John chuckles. He supposes she can.

*

Incidentally, Harry sits in the very same restaurant a couple of weeks later when she receives a text message. Much to the amusement/confusion/irritation of the other patrons, she cannot hold back a squeal.

“Oh, my God! Yes! Go, Johnny!”

*

_Sarah_

When John calls Sarah to tell her that he’s sick and will probably need a week or two off work, it doesn’t take her long to connect the latest explosion on the news to John’s unnamed illness.

She’s on his doorstep the same day, a mothering Mrs Hudson allowing her in.

“Not too long, dear,” Mrs Hudson says, “they’re both not well, yet.”

John has taken up residence on the couch, not wanting to have a whole flight of stairs between himself and Sherlock, not while he still wakes up with nightmares in which the other man’s life runs through his fingers like water, the stench of chlorine so fresh in his mind, he can still taste it burning down his throat.

She helps Mrs Hudson prepare something to eat for both her patients, and, as per the landlady’s orders, doesn’t stay long.

 

The second time she visits, Sherlock studiously ignores her, and John hardly ever looks at her, his eyes continuously searching for his flatmate.

The third time she visits, the same thing happens.

 

She gives them another week, before visiting again. John smiles slightly when she comes, and she even gets him to talk a bit. He only mentions meeting with his sister the day before in passing... but there is something weighing heavily within those words.

 

It takes Sarah another week to realise what that weight is. She visits one last time. John is being polite but distant, and Sherlock... well, Sherlock ignores her and only ever turns their way to throw a possessive look or two at John.

When she has to tell John that she will have to look for another replacement doctor, John is – as she has expected – understanding and cordial... and not at all upset. Neither of them has to say that the end of their working relationship will also mean that there would be no more dates.

She eventually leaves, Sherlock actually bidding her goodbye while wearing an expression that reminds her of a dog with its bone. She can contain her giggle until she closes the front door behind herself and shakes her head.

She makes a mental note to contact John again in, oh, maybe another month or two. Even people as emotionally clueless as Sherlock Holmes couldn’t remain clueless forever, could they?

*

_Mycroft_

Mycroft already waits when Sherlock enters the living room, and one look at his brother is all it takes. Never mind that Sherlock actually seems startled to see him – Sherlock is never startled, and most definitely not when it comes to him.

Immediately, Sherlock narrows his eyes, as if trying to reduce the size of the world, the size of the knowledge his brother has of him.

Mycroft just gives him a _look_ , remains standing for a second longer before walking towards the chair he usually occupies, knowing it is also the one John favours.  
“Well,” he remarks, casually, “I would have expected you to attempt avoiding the inevitable for longer.” He sits, hearing Sherlock stalk around the chair and come to a halt next to him.

“I have never been interested in your opinion, and I am not going to start now.”

Mycroft lifts his head to look at him. “Have a seat. This might take a while.”

“Not interested,” he repeats.

“Come, now. I would have thought that a fake homicide would at least intrigue you.” He allows a very small but very suggestive smile to show. “Or is this a bad time...?”

Sherlock scowls and lets himself fall in his own chair, crossing his arms. “That is none of your business.”

“You misunderstand me,” Mycroft replies immediately. “I approve very much of this development...”

“I do not require your approval,” Sherlock harshly interrupts him. “And I understood you quite well.”

Mycroft sighs. “Why you feel the need to take a good thing and twist it around just to spite me is beyond me.”

“Maybe because you continually poke your nose in where it is neither wanted nor needed.”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“Fat load of good that did,” Sherlock hisses back, thinking of how close he has come to losing John.

Mycroft goes as far as averting his eyes and clearing his throat. Before he can reply, however, he hears the bedroom door open once more. He doesn’t turn – knowing full well who it is – but instead keeps his eyes firmly on his brother. And then there it is, just a tiny flicker in Sherlock’s cold eyes, a flicker of something that is not at all cold. Sherlock buries it before it can be analysed, of course, but it is there, and Mycroft cannot help but feel for and with his brother. Again, of course, that doesn’t last any longer than the visible burst of warmth in Sherlock’s eyes, either.  
“Good morning, John.”

*

_Lestrade_

Lestrade watches John hurry after Sherlock to head to... well, he assumes it actually is Rome, knowing Sherlock. He notices that John’s body leans just this much more towards Sherlock once John reaches him, but he shrugs it off. They have had that really odd sort of connection from the very beginning, and it’s not something Lestrade truly understands. He understands the fascination people have with Sherlock – he is not immune to it, either, but John Watson appears to be the only one to... strive in the difficult man’s company.

He forgets about the brief flash of recognition less than a minute after he experiences it. After all, more than half the police force lives in the belief that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are more than _’flatmates’_ , and Lestrade has learned to ignore those rumours just like he has learned to ignore his own perception of the matter. It’s all the same to him, really, and if there is one thing he has learned from Sherlock Holmes, it’s that some things are just transport and not worth spending brain cells on.

 

Except... that it happens again. It’s a look, the second time. A look John sends Sherlock, and Lestrade is about to dismiss it, like he’s done before... but then Sherlock returns it. Only as much as he is able and allows, but he does.  
Then the moment shifts, and they are back to taking in the corpse lying before them.

Lestrade isn’t so sure anymore that what he has witnessed is no more than transport. He’s going to have to pay a little more attention, then.

 

The third time it happens, Lestrade is ready for it. Or so he thinks.

The case is closed, Sherlock’s whole being flares with satisfaction, and John grins at him. Lestrade directs his people around the wrap-up and only manages to keep track of the two men in the corner of his eyes. When they disappear out the room, however, he hurries after them. Sherlock continually trying to get out of answering further questions is maddening, if only everything else wasn’t so...

He comes to a sudden halt in the doorway. From his vantage point, he can see one flight down the stairs, see them kissing. It’s neither a deep nor a long kiss, and they break it almost immediately, but it is more than enough to freeze Lestrade in place. He can’t hold back a grin. The station and every person working within will be having a field day. Ah, Sherlock would take it in stride, as always. As, so Lestrade is sure, would John.

John opens his eyes and from where he is standing can see Lestrade. He frowns and playfully smacks Sherlock, who – so he correctly deduces – has known that Lestrade has been there all along. He grins at Sherlock’s answering chuckle.

Lestrade’s grin is widening. What a ridiculous pair. Ridiculously completing.

Sherlock looks up and cheekily waves a salute at Lestrade before following John down the stairs.

Lestrade chuckles and shakes his head before he returns to the crime scene. The questioning can wait until tomorrow.  
“Good man,” he says under his breath, “good man.”

*

_Molly_

Sherlock hears the click of the door and doesn’t have to look up from the computer readings to know who it is. The click is soft, barely audible; the steps are hesitant, stopping after every two, adding a slight shuffling each time; the woman barely dares to breathe.

“Molly,” he acknowledges her without turning his head.

“You’re working again,” her halting voice states.

“Indeed.” His eyes flicker briefly to her, then he returns to his work. “You have seen me work here on several occasions the past weeks. Today is no different.”

She shuffles closer, wringing her hands. “And... are you alright?”

“I am today, as I have been the first time you asked me after this whole...” he waves a vague hand, “... incident.”

This is something Molly is of course aware of. “And John. He is doing well.”

Sherlock sighs loudly, straightens in his seat and turns to look at her. “Yes, John is fine. As you well know.”

She flinches. “I worry,” she finally stammers. “It was my fault, after all.”

Sherlock just huffs, dismissingly. “Hardly. He had me fooled.”

“But you only saw him for a minute, I...”

“Molly,” he interrupts her. “This is my job. I am very good at what I do. You may trust me when I say that there was no way you could have known.”

Molly shuffles, again, turns to leave, hesitates, turns back, fingers fiddling. “I... heard some of the... sergeants, I think... talk.”

Sherlock doesn’t roll his eyes. He has more self-control than that. “Did you, now,” he feels obliged to say, instead.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” She sounds uncharacteristically firm.

The tone in her voice makes Sherlock look up again. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at her expectantly.

She considers him. “I would say that this explains a lot, but... I don’t think it does.”

He understands the true meaning of her words. “No.” He tilts his head. “Rather the opposite. It’s... quite inexplicable.” A delighted little smile plays around the corner of his lips. The same one Molly has seen on occasion when he has been on a particularly demanding case.

“Good,” she bursts out, smiling wearily but honestly. “You must be... right at home, then.” She bites her lip, whether it is to keep laughter or tears from escaping, Sherlock isn’t quite sure.

He nods and sends a tight smile, anyway.

She closes the door behind herself... and lets both the tears and the laugh escape. Her hand trembles as she wipes away the salty drops, but the smile remains.

*

_Sally_

What really surprises Sally is the fact that she is actually surprised when the rumours become fact. Despite the innuendo she has flung in John Watson’s direction because the freak as a general rule ignores her anyway, she never expected anything to happen.

It starts harmlessly enough... just some officers claiming that they saw the freak kiss his colleague, she pays it no mind. Shadows in a dark house can do weird things to peoples’ perception.

Then she begins noticing that the looks Lestrade is sending their way are gradually changing. Nothing drastic. Just... where there was hope and some weird (and quite inexplicable) fondness for the freak before, there is now something akin to parental pride on top of that.

When she notices the subtle changes to _’The Blog’_ , she is _this_ close to believing the rumours that get more insistent every day. It’s not like there is something on it that would confirm or deny anything. Just... the tone that describes the freak is noticeably... softer. She almost visibly shudders at that. There really is nothing soft to describe about him.

 

The day she finally believes it is an ordinary one. She directs the freak and his sidekick towards the other end of a long corridor with a tilt of her head and a brief, “Back there.”

And the freak – Sherlock – without a further sarcastic remark merely nods and says, “Thank you,” before walking away side by side with John.

Sally blinks. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, really, is it? A simple _’thank you’_ , nothing more. It’s something she’s heard Sherlock use before – even to her, every now and again. No, no. It’s not the words. It’s the tone. Or, rather, the complete lack of _under_ tone.

“Huh.” The freak actually sounded like he meant it. “Happy hunting, freak,” she calls after him.

Sherlock turns and grins. Not his usual one, but... a real one.

Sally snorts and shakes her head. She continues to use the term _’freak’_... but after that day, it misses the certain _under_ tone.

 

*

_Mrs Hudson_

John enters the flat and hears noises from the kitchen. He blinks. He knows for a fact that Sherlock won’t be back in a while. Last he’s seen him, he was buried neck-deep in some experiment or other that he thankfully couldn’t perform at home.  
He finds Mrs Hudson preparing tea and biscuits.

“Hello, dear,” she greets him warmly.

“Tea,” he remarks and smiles. “Sherlock won’t be here for a while, yet,” he adds, even though he can see that she has only prepared tea for two people.

“Sherlock rang me,” she says.

Sherlock phoned? John blinks again.

“He said you would be on your way home.” She frowns a bit but finishes preparing the tray and hands it to John to carry it to the living room. “Maybe he thought you might need some cheering up.”

John puts the tray on the coffee table, sits on the couch, pouring the tea for both of them. He’s not really sure what she means, though. He doesn’t feel in need of cheering up... on the contrary, really.

She sits next to him and fidgets her hands a bit. “Though there is something I was meaning to talk to you about.”

Ah. That would be why Sherlock has made sure that only John would be around. “Mrs Hudson, I’m really sorry about last week’s mess in the hall, I’ll talk to him...”

“Oh, no, no, dear,” she interrupts him and pats his arm. “That is not it, at all.” She clears her throat and shifts in her seat. “I was wondering... are you happy? Here?”

Happy? John raises his eyebrows. “I’m... not going to move out, if that is what you’re worried about.”

“No, dear. I mean, are you _happy_? With Sherlock?” She gives him an unmistakeable look, and John worries for a second that maybe they _have_ been too loud, after all.

“Uh...” Now he clears his throat and shifts. “I...” He frowns. “How did you...?”

She tuts. “I do have eyes, dear.”

John has to smile at that. He is almost sure that he doesn’t blush, though. Almost.

“But I was wondering if maybe Sherlock could use the upstairs bedroom for his experiments. It would be so much nicer, here, wouldn’t it?”

John’s jaw goes slack for a moment. Then he laughs.  
“You’re right,” he agrees and nods. “It would be nicer. It really would.”

And that is that.

*

_Sherlock_

Sherlock exits the taxi that has brought him home, pays the driver and then remains where he is when he sees the woman standing on the other side of the street. He waits until the taxi is out of his way, keeping eye contact with her, and crosses the street.

She fidgets, her eyes darting around, but she doesn’t leave.

He holds out his hand immediately when he reaches her. “Miss Watson.”

Harry snorts and rolls her eyes, but takes the hand. “Please. Nobody calls me Watson, much less Miss.” Despite the nonchalance, she sounds nervous, but considering the stories she has heard about this man, it is hardly surprising.

Sherlock keeps her hand in his for a moment longer than a normal handshake would take and studies her. “How long?” he wants to know.

Harry blinks. “Since... I’ve seen John...?”

Sherlock smirks a bit and pointedly looks at their still joined hands.

Harry connects the dots (she is not sure if her hands are still trembling sometimes or how much – she has stopped looking) and snatches her hand back, averting her eyes. “A month. Give or take.” She returns to look at him, defiantly.

Sherlock nods slowly, reading her. “Your brother is quite the vice himself,” he says, distractedly looking up 221B’s brick face. When his eyes return to her, she has all of his attention. “But he lessens the pull of others.”

Harry tilts her head. “He said something similar about you.”

Sherlock reflexively grins at that. “I can’t help but think I’ve rather got the better end of the deal.”

It is her turn to study him. “I’m not sure about that, actually.” The image of John having that gun in his bedside drawer, calling for him whenever insomnia or depression plagued him in the dark... She releases a shuddering breath. “Not sure at all.”

Sherlock finds himself being surprisingly... thankful for that outside perspective (or possibly even the vaguely phrased approval). John would read his expression right, would instantly understand its deeper meaning. Harry is not John, however, and Sherlock feels that there has been an unacceptable omission in their conversation. An omission that he has never cared much about before.  
He turns to the side and tilts his head towards 221B. “Shall we?”

Harry blinks. “What?”

Sherlock hopes that she truly is her brother’s sister in spirit, because he is not sure he knows how to properly express what he is offering. “Well, I expect John to be upstairs, and you hardly meant to stay out here all day.”

She is her brother’s sister and smirks benignly. “We shall...”

*

_John_

John doesn’t even notice when he stops reading the newspaper and watches Sherlock doing something smelly in the kitchen, instead. (Sherlock has, of course, refused to experiment in the room upstairs. Something about the fumes not circulating right.) The experiment includes intestines and the effect a gradually released acid would have on them, and John would rather not think about the details of that particular endeavour.

Instead, he focuses on Sherlock. The man is, after all, a sight to behold when he’s completely engrossed in his work. His eyes are sharp, wide and alive, his movements precise, and his whole posture efficiently focused. Sherlock is lost in his mind, right up until the point where it has the answer it seeks and leaves nothing but satisfaction to radiate off him. He takes off the rubber gloves with a satisfying snap and sends a text message, then actually goes to the trouble of disposing of the remains of his experiment, before he leaves the rest of the mess behind and turns toward the living room.

John grins. It is very hard not to when Sherlock is standing there, leaning against the doorframe, happy with himself and the world in those moments where a puzzle falls into place.  
“Been successful, then?”

Sherlock’s grin widens and he saunters closer. “Of course.”

John knows that look. Knows it very well, by now. “It should freak me out how playing with a bowl of intestines gets you all hot and bothered, shouldn’t it?”

Sherlock chuckles and without preamble seats himself to straddle John’s lap. “They are mere components of an experiment, John.” He leans closer and brushes his lips against John’s, clearly done with talking business. He smirks into the deepening kiss when he can read in John’s instantaneously relaxing body that all thoughts of experiments make way for nothing but Sherlock. He loses the smirk, when the same thing happens to him... when the code disappears, leaving only warm lips and an agile tongue and insistent hands. His own code rearranges itself, opens gaps for John to fit into, for their feelings for each other to fit into.

And John drinks it up. He doesn’t know how to read people like Sherlock does; he just knows Sherlock. Knows instinctively what Sherlock is telling him by means of his body when his lips sometimes miss John’s in a less calculated kiss, when his hands slip because John makes a small movement in a different direction than Sherlock is still able to expect, when regular breathing turns into soft sighs and unhinged moans.

Sherlock – while certainly messy – likes to have things where he can find them again, where they make sense. It stands to reason then that they usually have sex in the bedroom. John understands Sherlock’s need to make sense of what he is feeling, to give it a structure it inherently lacks. It’s not like John minds. The flat is their living space, but the bedroom is their haven, the one place where Sherlock is unquestionably his, body and mind.

So when their bodies put in a valiant effort to melt into each other and possibly into the chair they’re sitting in, Sherlock breaks the kiss for long enough to slip out of John’s lap and pull him up by his hand. He resumes the kiss the moment they both stand and walks John backwards towards their room.

Sherlock only leaves off John again to give both of them the chance to undress themselves. They do sometimes still undress the other, at least partially, but they had to discover that, while they do work like a well-oiled machine, when trying to perform something on each other, it doesn’t work quite so well... and after much juggling, balancing and laughing, they eventually settled on the more efficient approach.

John likes the efficient approach. Sherlock has been right their first time together; John _does_ enjoy watching him work, and seeing Sherlock reveal his skin with practised and quick fingers, while having a similar look directed at himself... well. It is quite the aphrodisiac.

Sherlock finishes first today and lies back on the bed, looking up at John expectantly, and then sighing blissfully when John settles between his legs. He doesn’t have to pull John into a kiss, because John is already there, so he wraps his legs around John’s thigh and torso, skin touching skin from head to toe.

 

Their love-making is slow and languid, today, Sherlock feeling inexplicably needy and John explicably more than willing to oblige. Giving and receiving, receiving and giving. It is one and the same, and every thrust, every touch and every kiss spell out, _’You fit me.’_

Sherlock still doesn’t quite believe that he’s one to do this relationship thing right, doesn’t understand how he can be what John needs. Doesn’t believe, doesn’t understand... but John always makes sure in his own way that he _knows_.

And when they are caught up in each other, drowning in their kisses... and Sherlock’s phone happens to buzz in his jacket pocked on the floor, Sherlock knows that John would always be willing to stop.

John, in return, knows just how much he loves this man when Sherlock returns Johns questioning look and then closes his eyes and pulls him back into a kiss and into their world.

The phone would still be there later. John is here now, showing Sherlock that, yes, he is very good at this relationship thing, even if he doesn’t understand it.

 

_TBC_


	4. Walk to Win

John wakes up and is confused for the fraction of a second it takes to remember that he is in his old room, not the one he has shared with Sherlock for... he has lost count, really. It feels as if it has never been different, as if Sherlock Holmes had always been a part of him. Sherlock does have the tendency to take over people’s lives, as John well knows. He is not surprised that he hardly remembers a time before Sherlock. Even Afghanistan appears as if it’s always been a nightmare, not a very real past _causing_ nightmares.

He groans as his sleep addled brain reminds him of the happenings the day before. He should have known. He knows that Sherlock isn’t one for artificial celebrations. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to partake in any Christmassy cheer. Unfortunately, he also hadn’t expected the time of the year to have a... more volatile effect on his rational detective.

John sighs. Sherlock had suddenly realised what it could mean to allow certain emotions. Had realised that it could become harder to harness feelings that before were easily put into boxes and shelved to be appraised but not felt. Had realised that allowing himself to love someone would remind him that he had loved before. Loved and lost. And where at any other time, Mycroft’s jibes concerning their mother and past Christmases would have dripped off him like snow on a warm window’s glass... this time, Sherlock had lashed out. The words had been cutting and deliberately hurtful, reflecting the pain Sherlock could no longer suppress.

Mycroft had, of course, understood immediately. This hadn’t made him hold back his own pain, however. And Mycroft, just like his brother, knows where to hit for maximum impact.

John had taken a furiously shaking Sherlock home, where Sherlock had then gone for John’s jugular, singling him out as the cause for his emotional instability. Many words had fallen, but the one that had cut the most was _’regret’_ , and John could then feel the pain first-hand.

Finally having had enough and retreating upstairs, John knew, lying in his own bed, that Sherlock would eventually want to take back his words (as far as he ever wants to take back words), but even John’s patience has its limits. He lay on his own, thinking about how he had cut short his visit with his sister to be with his lover and friend. So much for Christmas.

 

John turns in his bed and thinks about how it isn’t really Christmas without pain and of course lovers and relatives trying to kill each other. He smiles, cynically. It’s not his father, this time, though. Nor his sister. No, it’s someone who isn’t emotionally aggressive, but someone instead largely untested, untrained. Just as volatile.

Now, having slept (restlessly) through the night, John curses himself for his reaction. He doesn’t regret it, exactly. Sherlock might be useless with emotions, but that doesn’t mean that John has to take everything the insulting detective hands out. Of course, being who he is, he can’t help but feel bad, anyway. Sherlock doesn’t have mechanisms to deal with an overdose of emotion, he is merely very adept at not letting them surface in the first place. Well, that is one quality he no longer has entirely unlimited access to. Mostly, it is firmly in place, but, as has become quite clear, there are times when that unwavering wall cracks.

And it _is_ sort of John’s fault, when it comes down to it. They both know it. This is merely the first time that Sherlock has voiced it. Has voiced in anger that, maybe, the sacrifice isn’t worth making.

A knot forms in John’s stomach at that thought. It’s not like he could have done anything, the day before. He knows an intransigent Sherlock when he sees one, and he knows himself well enough to know that staying while angry and hurt would only have made things worse.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. He knows that he will never abandon Sherlock. Even if it takes deep and calming breaths to not just start crying, right now. He will not give in, not after he managed to avoid it before. If Sherlock were to decide that he could not sustain the established connection any longer...

John stops that thought before it can go anywhere. After all, the answer remains the same. In whatever way Sherlock is able to allow, he will stay.

It takes a few minutes of breathy puffs into the silence of his room before he hears the sounds from downstairs. Sherlock... is playing his violin. John turns to look at his alarm clock. Sherlock is playing his violin at three fourteen in the morning, his mind corrects. And it’s not the angry or frustrated fiddling that John has come to know very well from whenever Sherlock is in a mood. No, the music that finds its way upstairs is soft and beautiful. John sits as the knot in his stomach gains weight. Heartbreaking. The music is heartbreaking.

John swings his legs over the side of the bed, rubs his eyes and gets up. He is still wearing the clothes from the previous day, having been too knackered to even change out of them. Anger and pain are terribly draining. He can’t even begin to imagine what they must have done to Sherlock.

He softly pads down the stairs and finds Sherlock in his nightwear and dressing gown facing the window, playing his music.

Sherlock stops the moment John enters the living room. Both his arms fall at his sides, bow and violin in his near-limp hands, but what John really notices is the pure anguish in his expression. He has seen it before. It is infuriating and crippling at the same time.

John wants to apologise for walking out, even though he knows damn well that it wouldn’t have done any good to stay. Wants to just step forward and hold this man. Wants to tell him that he loves him, even if he’s being a dickhead.

“I didn’t mean it,” Sherlock says, sounding as pained as he looks.

John can’t help it. He has to smile. “Well...” he begins, “it _is_ sort of my fault, and it _was_ easier, before.”

Sherlock sways slightly and averts his eyes. Then his piercing gaze returns, unflinching, like a man facing a firing squad. “But I don’t regret it. Couldn’t.”

John can breathe a little easier. He doesn’t know what he would have done, had Sherlock decided that friendship is all he can make himself give, after all. Well, John has established that he would have remained where he is, but... The consequence doesn’t bear thinking about. Too late. Too late for him.

“I...” Sherlock continues, “I’m... inept at this. I knew that, of course, but...”

“Do you love me?” John interrupts him, his face serious (and secure – he knows the answer).

Sherlock straightens. “Yes,” he says, once more without fear or regret.

John’s little smile returns. “I can deal with the rest.”

Sherlock blinks.

“I can deal with you losing it because you don’t know what to do with yourself and what you feel. I can.” He shrugs and sighs. “Your little tantrum was, well... I’m not going to lie to you and say it wasn’t hurtful.” He does another little shrugging motion. “I know you,” he relents.

Now it’s Sherlock who can breathe again. “You’re not leaving.”

“Never for long, anyway. ‘S not like I can keep away.” John’s lip twitches. “You know... _my_ life was easier before I met you, and it’s definitely your fault that it’s anything but easy, now. Sometimes I feel like _saying_ that I regret ever meeting you, but I could never mean it. Not really.”

Sherlock returns the tentative smile, then clears his throat. “I’m going to have to do something about my lack of control. It’s a liability.” He looks almost... huffy, and John has to hold back a grin.

“Practice makes perfect,” John agrees and then smirks. “Let’s see if we can get you ready to deal with a full family Christmas, by this time next year.”

Sherlock scowls at him, and John chuckles.

“Come here,” John says, signing Sherlock closer.

Sherlock puts away the instrument that is still in his hands and follows John’s request. He slings his arms around John’s waist and releases a shuddering breath into his neck.

John leans his head against the dark curls and weaves the fingers of one hand into them, while the other cups the slender neck.

Sherlock’s grip tightens. “I can’t lose you.” His voice is hoarse, hardly more than a dark whisper.

John kisses his temple and then presses his head closer, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re a damn near insufferable man, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock dry-sobs a laugh. “Sufferable for you?” He tries to hide it, but the question rings within his words nonetheless.

John smiles a pained smile, presses another kiss to Sherlock’s temple and pulls back enough to cup his face and look at him. “Don’t be stupid. I’m not suffering you, or I wouldn’t be here. You can be a pain in the arse, but _suffering_?” He raises an eyebrow. “Or do you really think I would? Merely suffer someone?”

Sherlock studies him for a long moment and comes to the conclusion that... no, he wouldn’t.

“I am still a soldier, Sherlock. I can take pain now and again if the end game is worth it. And I am hell bent on winning this war.” His lips twitches for a second, before it becomes an honest grin.

Sherlock tries to resist it, but eventually has to return it. “Your war, am I?” He sighs into the kiss when it comes and closes his eyes. Once it ends, he rests his forehead against John’s. “I suppose... my war in this context is with me, then?”

John opens his eyes to see that Sherlock is already looking at him, intently. He licks his lips, then he nods, reluctantly. “You could say that. In a manner of speaking.” He’s not really sure what Sherlock will make of this metaphor. The detective is of course at constant war with himself, his mind and the empty time and space in between. John doesn’t know what another war would mean to Sherlock.

“I gave up the drugs,” Sherlock says, musing. “I fought them and beat them and put my mind to some use. If you ever feel like it, ask Lestrade. He’ll tell you that it _was_ a war I was fighting.”

John nods. He has seen people detoxing before, after all. Many of them failing. Some of them succeeding.

“So if I have to fight myself to keep you, to put my... feelings to use, as well...” He pauses, his eyes are burning. “I am hell bent on winning this war.”

John reaches for one of Sherlock’s hands, tangles their fingers and brings them up to kiss them. “When has either of us ever shied away from potential danger?”

Sherlock tilts his head, smirking expectantly. “Never.”

They begin their battle not back to back, but lips to lips, and if anyone can bend hell, it is certain to be them.

 

Sherlock Holmes has found his heart walking with him, guiding him, loving him. Steady, immovable.

John Watson has found... that his heart is now learning to walk. Brave, unstoppable.

And so they walk. Walk to win.

 

**END**

_2011-12-31_

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**BONUS:**

Art by the lovely [not-john-watson](http://not-john-watson.tumblr.com/) ♥

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